Little Black Book
by Lollywater
Summary: Massie Block wants to be in control – always. Claire Lyons wants to be vindicated; to be free. Skye Hamilton just wants revenge. And in Westchester, everyone can have what they want…for a price. Rated M for language. BASED ON A STORY FROM MY OLD ACCOUNT: "LITTLE BLUE BOOK" BY CHEZZABABYX.
1. Prologue

The Bridging Quad

The School of Blessed Alix Le Clercq

Friday 22nd May, 2009

3:30 P.M.

* * *

Massie Block had a theory: the sun always shone a little brighter on Westchester. Her father, William, always said that God smiled on upstate New York. She didn't know if that was true, but she'd been just about everywhere worth going and she didn't doubt for a second that here in Westchester the grass was greener, the days were longer, and the people were better looking.

And today…well, today was a particularly glorious day. The last day of her junior year was finally over and, as per tradition, she had joined the students of Blessed Alix Le Clercq and the neighboring elitist all-boys school, Johns Meredith, on the quad that connected both campuses.

Despite the beautiful day, Massie wasn't ready to smile just yet. She pushed her Oliver Peoples sunglasses a little higher on her nose, and stretched out her sun-kissed legs. "Lay off the sunscreen, Dyl," she advised her companion disdainfully. "You could use a little color."

The redhead seated beside her, Dylan Marvil, had been her friend since early childhood. It was, more than anything, a friendship based on convenience: one needed the other's influence, and the other needed protection. In a school filled with girls who looked like runway models it wasn't easy to be pale, tall and a size 6; even if you _were_ Merri-Lee Marvil's daughter and American royalty. That was something Dylan had learnt the hard way.

Dylan threw the bottle of cherry soda-scented Hawaiian Tropic SPF 60+ she'd been using into her Louis Vuitton tote with disgust, so miserable that she didn't care if sunscreen spilt over its contents: gauzy, angelic-looking, white cotton blouses and denim cut-offs that cost hundreds of dollars. "Some of us just _burn, _Massie."

"Whatever." Massie was too preoccupied with her own thoughts to pick up on Dylan's snarky tone. She began to play with her silky, pin-straight brown hair: twirling it around her fingers and tugging on it anxiously. She could feel a great number of people eyeing her appreciatively – her slinky, nude Calvin Klein slip didn't leave much to the imagination – but for once, the admiration of others wasn't enough to placate her. "Has Alicia left yet?"

Dylan glanced around, shielding her green eyes from the sun with her hands. "Her car's still here; she can't be far," she murmured, nodding at the shimmering red Audi R8 parked in a slice of prime parking lot real estate. Parked beside it was a hand-me-down BMW belonging to Kristen Gregory, who was sitting in the driver's seat, her phone glued to her ear.

"Are you pissed that Kristen's going to be Head Prefect next year?"

Massie rolled her hazel eyes. "_Please. _Her mother is the Principal – anyone who didn't see that coming is deaf, dumb _and _blind," she said aloud, but she balled her hands into fists by her sides.

_Of course I'm pissed, _she thought bitterly, and frowned. _No one deserves to be Head Prefect more than I do._

Kristen caught Dylan's gaze and waved. Her conversation ended abruptly and she tossed her phone to the side, clambered out of the car and locked it; walked towards them purposefully, her hands shoved in the pockets of her J. Crew skirt and her blonde hair flowing behind her. "Hey," she called.

"Hey," Dylan called back, suddenly nervous. Massie didn't say anything.

Kristen shuffled nervously, looking around at the architecture, the hacienda bushes, the rows of shiny sports cars and luxury SUVs – anywhere but at Massie. "Um…about the party tonight…"

Massie smiled beatifically. Her end-of-year parties were unparalleled by anything else on the social calendar of Alix Le Clercq's many students. "Yeah?" she prompted, wanting to hear Kristen beg.

Unfortunately, she was denied the opportunity: Kristen changed her mind. "I know how much you wanted to be Head Prefect next year, and…well, I just want to apologize, Mass. You _know _I never intended – "

Massie interrupted, unable to hear anymore. Head Prefecture was an honor, but it was voted for by the student body and therefore it amounted to little more than a popularity contest. Being outvoted by Kristen Gregory, who was pretty but boring, was a low blow. "Don't be silly, Kiki!" she said, falsely bright. She shrugged. "These things just happen – _right?_"

Massie had decided to become friends with Kristen in the eighth grade, after reading _The Art of War _by Sun Tzu and _The Prince _by Machiavelli for her Modern History class. Both texts advised knowing your enemy and keeping your enemies close, and Massie had no greater rival than Kristen.

Kristen smiled weakly. "Um, right. So, we're okay?"

"Better than okay." Massie grinned; her trademark shit-eating grin. The mere fear of her wrath had the school's best orator stumbling over her words. "You're coming tonight, right?"

"I – yeah, of course."

"Good. Are you bringing anyone…?"

Kristen jerked her thumb over her shoulder, gesturing at a group of Johns Meredith students who were playing a game of shirts-and-skins soccer.

Immediately, Dylan's face flushed – amongst them was Derrick Harrington, who was Massie's ex-boyfriend and Dylan's latest obsession. She'd been pretending not to look in that direction for the half-hour that she and Massie had been sitting outside. _As if I hadn't noticed. _Massie fought back the smarmy grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Cam and I live right near each other, so we're driving together."

For the first time in their conversation, Massie's smile was truly genuine. "Well, isn't that nice?" she said aloud, watching Cam Fischer – Kristen's supposed date – as he wiped at his forehead with the hem of his shirt, revealing a strip of perfectly tanned, well-defined muscle.

He was Derrick's perfect counterpart: dark-haired where Derrick was blonde, serious where Derrick was goofy. He'd abandoned his worn Diesel leather jacket and guitar case on the grass nearby to join Johns Meredith's other star players in a friendly game.

As she watched, Derrick and Cam embraced each other in a hug to celebrate a particularly hard-won goal. "It's a pool party," Massie told Kristen. "Make double-sure Cam knows so he can…dress appropriately."

Dylan nudged Massie. "I spy with my little eye, something that looks _pissed_. Ten o'clock."

Alicia Rivera stood in the doorway – antique 1900s mahogany, three stories tall – of Alix Le Clercq, tapping her foot nervously. She was a vision in a psychedelic Camilla Franks kaftan and strappy Giuseppe Zanotti heels; students stopped to glance covertly in her direction. In her hands she held a single black, leather-bound book. Her expression was thunderous.

"What's eating her ass?" Massie murmured bitterly.

"You know Leesh – total drama queen," Dylan said off-handedly, turning back to watch Derrick score another goal.

Kristen nodded. "I'm sure she just discovered that someone's wearing the same shoes she is or something."

But Massie felt discomfited by the look on Alicia's face. "Yeah, maybe," she said, clearly disbelieving. "I'll go talk to her, though. Just in case." She stood and brushed grass off of her Lanvin gladiator sandals. Kristen automatically took her place on the picnic blanket, pulling out a battered Penguin Classic.

A few students tried to stop Massie as she crossed the quad but she ignored them all. Alicia had noticed her and beckoned her with a single finger before turning on her heel and disappearing back into the Main Hall. Massie found her in the first deserted classroom, pacing back and forth in front of the electronic whiteboard.

"What the fuck, Leesh?" Massie hissed impatiently. "Dylan and I have been on the quad for thirty minutes; you didn't even show."

Alicia glared at Massie. "Fuck you."

Massie's jaw dropped. "I beg your fucking _pardon?_"

"Did you tell Skye Hamilton about my dad?" Alicia stopped and stood still, pointing a finger in Massie's face. "I swear to God, if you told _anyone, _we will ruin you. We will bury you in libel and defamation claims until your father wouldn't step foot in _The_ _Westchester_ without hanging his head!"

"Watch who you're threatening, _Leesh,_" Massie said darkly. "I didn't tell Skye _shit – _and I'm especially sure that I didn't tell her anything about the many misdeeds of Len fucking _Rivers._"

Alicia seems defiant for a moment, but finally she dropped her hand and her pretty face became crestfallen. "I just don't understand how she found out," she groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose with her thumb and her forefinger. She did that whenever she was stressed: she was prone to migraines.

"Did she say something to you?"

Alicia shook her head. "No. But I _know _she knows."

"How?"

Alicia gestured at the leather-bound book she'd been carrying before; she'd thrown it onto a desk in the front row. "It's all in there. All my secrets – _all _of them. Things even _I _had forgotten I'd done."

Massie picked up the book gingerly and began to flick through the pages. It wasn't just a dossier on Alicia: there were pages dedicated to every student in their sophomore class, as well as a few pages for younger and older students. She turned to a page about Dylan and surveyed it sadly, touching the rich, thick paper.

"She spent a lot of time on this book," Massie said. "The titles are letter-pressed; the pages have golden edges. It's all typed and embossed with gold. She was saving this for something special." She hesitated. "Where did you find it?"

Alicia sniffed, leaning against the teacher's desk, now empty and cold. "She wasn't here. I mean, she's been M.I.A. all week – "

Massie rolled her eyes at Alicia's revelation. As if she hadn't noticed Skye's absence.

Alicia continued. " – so Dr. Gregory asked me to clean out her locker and she gave me the combination. I wasn't even going to _look _at that stupid book, but…"

"But this is _you_ we're talking about, and you couldn't help yourself," Massie finished. Alicia looked wounded. "Not that I blame you," she added. "In fact, I'm glad. If you hadn't looked at it, we wouldn't know what we were up against."

Massie took a seat at the desk and placed both hands on the book, as if she were about to cast a spell or make an oath. Alicia observed her carefully. "You don't seem very surprised, M."

"I'm not," Massie said, lying. "I never trusted Hamilton."

Internally, Massie was a mess: a nervous wreck; angry; disappointed. Disappointed in Skye _and_ disappointed in herself.

In a year, Skye had become the sister Massie had never had; her closest friend; and that year had been nothing but a piece of a puzzle. A piece of a puzzle, and Massie couldn't even imagine the finished picture. Their fathers worked together and their mothers lunched together; they'd spent hours together every weekend talking and drinking and making a mess.

_What had Skye been planning? To fuck me over? To fuck _everyone _over?_

Externally, she tried to remain calm – took a deep breath. Massie liked to be in control and if she couldn't be in control, she liked to look like she was.

"Yeah, but you didn't trust her because you thought she was a slut. You couldn't have imagined she'd do anything like this to – "

"I underestimated her." Massie sighed, not liking the direction their conversation was taking. _No, _she hadn't seen this coming – had Alicia? Had anyone?

_I underestimated her because even _I_ liked_ _her. She was funny; she knew all the Johns Meredith boys and how to play them. She was easy to talk to – _too _easy to talk to. We were cut from the same cloth; that's what I liked about her. So why am I surprised she's just as scheming and manipulative as I am? _

"Are there just girls in here? BALC students?"

"A few teacher's she's had illicit affairs with; one or two Johns Meredith boys."

"Which ones?"

"The usual suspects…Derrick, Josh, Landon…there's _two _pages dedicated to Chris Abeley."

Massie rolled her eyes. "What is it with Chris Abeley?"

Alicia shrugged. "Why do you think she was building this book? Blackmail? Extortion?"

"Power."

"Power?"

"Over us. '_Knowledge is power,_' isn't that what they say?" Massie shrugged. "Too bad for Miss Hamilton, but we now have the upper-hand." She flipped through the book until she found the page dedicated to her, and ripped it out.

"And what are we going to do with it?" Alicia asked, watching Massie rip at the page. For good measure (and because Alicia was watching), Massie ripped out the page dedicated to her, too.

"These pages? I'm going to use them to fuel the tiki torches at my party tonight. Which Skye is _so _uninvited to, BTW."

Alicia grinned. "I meant the _book._"

"Oh." Massie smiled.

"First thing's first: go put the rest of Skye's shit in your car and drive it over to her house; make your excuses and get out of there quick. I'll call her, tell her my party's cancelled before you get there and then you can corroborate. Then, we're going to have Skye expelled. Unceremoniously. And she can get the _fuck _out of Westchester."

Saying the words out loud hurt. She tried to imagine a year without her best friend; a lifetime. And all of it without a goodbye.

"How? For what?" Alicia rolled her eyes. "You're good, M, but you're not _that _good."

Massie thought for a second. "Don't second guess me, Leesh…"

She turned her back and stared at the posters on the wall. Talking her father into transferring Skye's father to another office – and taking Skye along with him – would be easy. She'd done it before, when her best friend in middle school and the daughter of another of William's co-workers had stolen her seventh grade boyfriend. This time, she'd tell him that they'd had a falling out; ask him to promote Mr. Hamilton to a better position. One as far away as possible.

But manipulating was significantly harder.

"I'll run down to the library, photocopy a few choice pages, hide the book and tell the darling that I only had access to the book for a _minute, _and I don't know its current whereabouts. Skye will be expelled, the accusations and allegations that Gregory has access to will be investigated – based on an anonymous tip – and no one will be any the wiser."

Alicia's pretty pink pout stretched into a bone-chilling, malicious grin. "Maybe you are that good. I'm down. What's the next step?"

Massie crumpled up the two ripped pages and hid them in her bag. For a second she considered doing the same for Dylan and Kristen, but she knew that the book would be for her eyes only from now on – what was the point? "There is no step two, Leesh. We don't need the book; we're already in a class of our own."

"So…what are we going to do with the book?"

Massie smiled sweetly and stood. She crossed to the door before she answered Alicia's question. "I'm going to destroy it, A. Good riddance to bad news."

As the door closed behind Massie and she stalked towards the library, she slipped the book into her Alexander Wang tote for safety. She had no idea how Skye had done it – amassed all of these secrets and intimate details.

And it didn't matter.


	2. Chapter 1

The Principal's Office

The School of Blessed Alix Le Clercq

Tuesday 25 August, 2009

12:06 P.M.

* * *

"I must say, it's a pleasure to meet Miss Teen USA."

"_Former _Miss Teen USA."

Claire Lyons smiled sweetly. Her smile didn't betray her boredom or frustration; her face was a perfect facade of genuine joy. It was a trick she'd learnt the year she'd turned five, and won her hundredth beauty pageant. In that same year she'd learnt that Jesus had died on the cross for her sins; that pride and vanity were a sin; and that some people thought beauty pageants were exploits of pride and vanity.

She'd felt pretty conflicted that year.

"Thank you, Principal Gregory. It's an absolute pleasure to meet you, too. You have a great collection of books there," she said, gesturing at the tall shelves stacked with literature.

Blessed Alix Le Clercq's Principal, Dr. Moira Gregory, BSC, PHD, didn't spare a glance for the collection of first editions that surrounded her. Instead, she smiled tightly and stuck out her hand. Claire took it and shook it delicately. Her father, Jay, stood by her side, beaming beatifically to see his daughter interacting so well with her new school's Principal.

"Thank you, Claire. She's quite the charmer, Lieutenant Commander," Dr. Gregory told him, releasing Claire's hand.

Jay Lyons – who still wore a buzz cut and ramrod straight posture, even though he'd been honorably discharged from the Navy ten years ago – stood a little taller. "Good to know those thousands on deportment classes and pageant coaches were well spent," he said briskly, but his goofy smile didn't waver. "She's somethin', huh, ma'am?"

"Smart, talented, athletic…she'll be a wonderful addition to our cohort." Dr. Gregory smiled right back: just the teeth; no hint of a smile about her eyes. She glimpsed at Claire's paperwork. "I understand you'll be joining William Block's security team, Lieutenant Commander Lyons?"

"Yes, ma'am, I'm his new head of security – call me Jay."

"_Jay._" She smirked. "He cares a great deal about his family – and their protection." Dr. Gregory removed her ugly, thick-framed prescription glasses. "My ex-husband Roy and I are friends of his; his daughter, Massie, is very close with mine."

"You have a daughter?" Claire asked, feigning surprise. She'd received an information pack for new students three weeks ago, before the Lyons had left their home in Boca Raton – in it, Kristen Gregory had been named the school's Head Prefect. It didn't take a genius to add two and two together. "Is she a student at this school?"

"Yes. Kristen. You'll meet her soon, Claire – as our Head Prefect, she's elected herself as your buddy. Over the first two weeks of school it will be her responsibility to show you around and introduce you to your classmates. I think you two will get along."

Jay's delight was practically radiating from him. Claire tried not to roll her eyes.

Claire hadn't spent much time in the company of other girls her age. Due to her commitments to pageants and dance, she'd been homeschooled by her mother and spent her "free time" in the company of girls who viewed her as their competition…which hadn't exactly fostered a friendly environment.

Still, Claire appreciated the open acknowledgement of the rivalry amongst the pageant crowd. Here in Westchester, she'd been told, the girls were friends in each others company and saboteurs behind each others backs. Worst of all, their parents didn't have a clue: they all thought their daughters were sweet, perfect princesses.

Just like Dr. Moira Gregory. "She's a star athlete and an excellent student," she was saying, barely able to contain her over-the-top pride. "I can't think of a student who could set a better example."

_Yeah right. _Claire bit her cheek and stared at her Bensimon tennis shoes. _Why don't you ask Skye just how well-behaved your daughter is. _

She bristled at the thought.

Claire could still remember the day she'd met Skye. She'd been four years-old, sitting on the sidelines and watching the older girls in her dance class as they warmed up. _Nervous; uncertain. _Skye had marched over, stuck out her hand and said, "Hi, I'm Skye. This is my Mom's dance studio. What's your name?"

That first meeting had kind of defined their friendship ever since. When she wasn't on-stage, Claire was quiet and reserved. She'd made 'think first, act second' her personal motto – nothing was achieved without careful preparation.

Whereas Skye was more of a 'shoot first, ask questions later' kind of girl.

Claire wondered, and not for the first time, what Skye had done to deserve the kind of treatment she'd gotten from girls like Kristen and Massie Block. Three months earlier Skye had still been sending emails about all the fun, interesting things that they did together (which, admittedly, had made Claire a little jealous).

And then, a few weeks ago, she'd been informed that she was no longer welcome at Blessed Alix Le Clercq – and that her family was no longer welcome in Westchester.

"Well, ma'am, I care an awful lot about my daughter's safety…her happiness is paramount to me."

"Oh, she'll be very happy here." Dr. Gregory gestured at the walls, lined with pictures of students past and present. Some held sporting equipment and some held trophies; others stood behind lecterns and easels. "Our girls are passionate, innovative and, most of all, friendly."

Claire nodded as if she cared particularly, but she didn't. Her iPhone was vibrating in the back pocket of her J. Crew Toothpick jeans and it was remarkably distracting. She could only assume that it was a text from Skye – her mother didn't text, her brother was at soccer practice and no one else had a reason to talk to her.

"Will Claire be taking time off of school during the year – you're signed with an agent in LA, aren't you, Claire?"

Jay seemed to be at a loss for words, and Claire could understand why. Only five months ago – before her father had been offered a very lucrative position with William Block – she had signed with one of America's best talent agencies. Much to the delight of her mother, Trudi. And now, Claire was giving it all up.

Trudi wasn't taking it well.

He grimaced. "No, she won't, but yes, she has."

Claire's phone was still vibrating; her heartbeat was racing. Skye and her parents were in the middle of packing up their house in Scarsdale and Claire was due to meet her there in half an hour; if her little meeting with Dr. Gregory didn't wrap up soon, she was going to be late.

"School is what's most important to me now," she added.

_It's not technically a lie, _she reminded herself. _I do care about school and I _do _want to do well… _

But she couldn't help thinking of all the things she was giving up…and why she had to give them up. _All the auditions; the 5 A.M. calls; the photo shoots…_a shiver ran up her spine. _Don't. _Without thinking, she reached for her father's hand. He grabbed it and held it tightly, smiling at her proudly.

It was more reassuring than he'd ever realize.

"But, if a role were to – "

"School is more important."

Dr. Gregory didn't press the point. Through the window to her left, Claire could see staff moving furniture from one building to another: antique desks and boxes of globes, diagrams and posters. She focussed on that for a moment, trying to clear her thoughts, but Dr. Gregory obviously mistook Claire's distraction for interest.

"Shall we tour the grounds, Claire?" She discarded her dowdy tweed blazer and glanced over her shoulder. "It's a lovely day."

Claire opened her mouth to decline, but Jay beat her to it. "That would be fantastic, Moira. Thank you."

_Are you forgetting that we need to be at Skye's house in, like, half an hour? _Claire thought, glaring at her dad. Her phone vibrated one last time. "Um…can I use the bathroom before we do?"

Ensconced in Dr. Gregory's private bathroom, she checked her phone. Skye had sent her three texts and tried calling twice. Both text messages were requests for Claire's opinion on Dr. Gregory – and her outfit.

**Tweed pantsuit, ugly glasses, boring woman. I'm going to be a little bit late…Dr G is giving a tour of campus. **

**Boring, **Skye texted back. **Hurry up. **

Claire used the bathroom quickly and checked herself in the mirror. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been this fresh-faced in public. With just a slick of tinted moisturizer on her face and her hair in it's natural pin-straight state, she looked younger and sweeter than usual – not at all like a former Miss Teen USA.

"Claire, sweetie, are you alright?" Jay called.

"Uh…yeah, I'm coming out now!"

The tour of the campus took fifteen minutes: a whirlwind of Gothic architecture and picturesque contemporary landscaping. The school itself, situated in the heart of White Plains, but Claire's mind was elsewhere.

"Are you interested in co-curricular activities?" Dr. Gregory asked, as she showed off a particularly well-appointed lecture hall with all of the best modern conveniences.

"Track, hockey and tennis," Claire listed off, crossing her arms.

"She's a wonderful dancer," Jay added. "Trained with the best. We always made sure of that."

Dr. Gregory nodded absent-mindedly. "Wonderful…we did receive the list of elective subjects you sent us, and your timetable has been arranged accordingly. You'll receive it, along with a small…care package…on your first day." She looked at her vintage Cartier watch. "Well, Lieutenant Commander…Miss Lyons. It was a pleasure to meet with you, but I'm afraid I have another appointment – "

"Say no more." Jay brushed at the lap of his chinos. He'd topped them off with a Hawaiian shirt that made him look like some tasteless Floridian retiree. Claire would have been embarrassed if she weren't so used to her dad's poor sense of fashion. "I'm real glad we could meet with you, Dr. Gregory. It's eased some of my doubts."

It took thirty minutes to reach Skye's house but only because Jay drove like a madman, hoping to make it there before the Hamiltons were finished packing. Jay and Claire were escorting them to a hotel near JFK where they'd spend the night, before flying out in the morning.

A rental van was parked on the gravel driveway in front of the massive Colonial house. "Afternoon, Lyons family," Geoffrey Hamilton called out as the car pulled up. He handed off the box he was carrying to a young boy in a polo shirt that bore that logo of a well-known removalist service.

"Geoff!" Jay called back, clambering from the car's driver's seat. The two men embraced, clapping each other on the back.

It hadn't been an accident that Claire had been sent to Natasha Hamilton's dance studio: not only was it the best in Florida, but Jay and Geoffrey had been best friends since they'd both been Navy recruits. Claire had spent eight years training under Natascha's careful tutelage, before they'd relocated here.

Geoffrey had been the CFO of Block & Associates for three years, and the two families had kept in touch throughout that time.

Skye ran from the home's foyer and launched herself onto Claire, squealing with excitement. "So you toured the campus?" she said, still wrapped around Claire like a koala on a tree.

Claire laughed. "Yeah. I mean, I guess you could say that."

"It's yucky, right?" Skye said, finally detaching herself from Claire. Skye's tastes ran towards the contemporary; she liked white space and chrome features.

Claire rolled her eyes. "It's _classic._"

"It's boring."

Natasha stood on the porch, her blonde hair pulled to one side by a tortoiseshell clip and her lithe dancer's body wrapped in a Donna Karan sweater and Lorna Jane tights. Her beautiful face was a picture of sadness.

_It must be hard on Natasha, _Claire thought, watching her. All of her closest friends here in Westchester – Kendra Block, Merri-Lee Marvil and Nadia Rivera – were turning their back on her because of some petty vendetta their daughters had against Skye.

_I mean, they had Skye expelled because they decided they didn't _like _her anymore. _Claire wondered why they couldn't just settle for bullying and calling her a loser, like any other popular girl would. Did they really have to exile her and her family to _Hong Kong?_

"It's such a shame," Natasha said, sniffling, "that you two won't be spending the next two years together, like we'd hoped."

Skye's energy plummeted almost immediately. "Oh yeah," she said.

Claire shrugged. "We can still email. It won't be that different from any other year – maybe I'll come visit you in Hong Kong over the summer?"

"Maybe I can teach you Chinese?"

"Skye, you don't _speak _Chinese."

"Yet…but I will!"

Claire rolled her eyes, as Skye began pulling her towards the house. It was empty, but for a pile of boxes in the middle of every room. Claire looked around sadly, her big, blue eyes resting on a pile of boxes in the living room that were marked 'STORAGE.' _At least they'll have to come back some time_…

Skye pulled them into the tiny powder room on the ground floor and leant against the door. "So, I have a favor to ask," she whispered conspiratorially.

"I'll do anything."

"Good." Skye grinned evilly, playing with the hem of her five-hundred dollar T-shirt from The Row – the one that Claire secretly hated. "I want you to get revenge on Massie."

That made Claire pause. She hadn't even met Massie yet (not that she was looking forward to it); she'd just heard stories about her malicious wrongdoings. How could Skye assume that Claire could go toe-to-toe with someone who'd succeeded in having her expelled and her father demoted – and sent ten thousand miles away?

Plus, she wasn't sure that she was willing to put her father's job – and her family's welfare – in jeopardy.

"Um…anything but that," she said.

Skye sighed dramatically. "_Fine,_" she said, like she was the one doing Claire a favor, and Claire was asking too much. "Well, I think Massie has a book of mine and I want it back."

"Why don't you just ask her for it?"

"It's not that kind of book. It's not like she borrowed my copy of _Twilight, _Kuh-laire. She _stole it from me, _duh! And I want it back."

"What is it?"

"It's a diary. Black, leather-bound; nothing written on the cover. Get it back for me, and I'll never ask anything of you ever again!"

_A diary? _Claire couldn't help it; she was intrigued. _Has the diary got something to do with Skye's entire family being banished? _"First of all," she said, "I don't believe you when you say you'll never ask me for anything ever again. Second of all, what's in the diary? Why did Massie steal it?"

"Diary stuff," Skye huffed. "Are you going to get it back for me or not?"

Claire thought for a moment. "Ok…I'll get it back."

"_Yes! _In that case, we have some scheming to do…"


	3. Chapter 2

The Terrace

Aria Restaurant

Thursday 3 September, 2009

8:15 P.M.

* * *

"She seems ok. Like, from a distance."

"I don't like her. She seems…_tacky_."

Claire listened from a secluded spot on the balcony of Aria. She couldn't help but roll her eyes: being labelled 'tacky' by a girl wearing a skintight Hérve Léger and five-inch heels – really? From Skye's description, Claire could guess that her critic was probably Alicia Rivera.

She watched as Alicia tossed her dark hair, her blue eyes scanning Aria's elegantly decorated function room. But Claire didn't want to be found, and she had a feeling she wouldn't be.

She hated these things, anyway.

'Student representatives' of Blessed Alix Le Clercq – which included the prefects of its four student houses – roamed, mingling with new students, while their parents discussed business and exchanged contact cards. On this occasion, the girls school was joined by its all-male counterpart.

Madness had ensued.

Sixteen year-old girls who dressed like they were twenty-six stood in skimpy skirts and high heels, preening themselves in front of Johns Meredith's most eligible males. They didn't elect houses or prefects at Johns Meredith, so their representatives for the night openly ran towards the wealthy, the good-looking and the athletically-gifted.

It seemed that Alicia's eye was on one boy in particular. "Doesn't Josh look _incredible _in Ralph Lauren's tailoring?" she asked, eyeing him from across the room. "I heard that Ralph Lauren _himself_ measured Josh for that suit."

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't believe everything you hear," the redhead beside her said. She stared at her virgin Bloody Mary, her expression miserable. "My mom heard his mom lost ten pounds on the watercress diet so she made our chef cook nothing but watercress soup with pine nuts for, like, eight weeks – and _none _of us lost weight."

_Must be Dylan. _

"Nice dress."

Claire started, jolting upright. Suddenly self-conscious, she ran a hand along her hip, encased in a short, ruffled Vera Wang Lavender Label cocktail dress. "Thanks," she said, clearing her throat.

The girl who'd joined her on the balcony was exactly Claire's height and of a similar build (well, maybe slighter – but not by much); her fox-like face, however, couldn't have been more different. She tossed her silky, brown hair over her shoulder and bared her straight, white teeth.

"I used to have one just like it," she said.

Claire didn't respond – how did you respond when someone said something like that? Besides: she doubted that _Massie_ _Block_ meant what she'd just said as a compliment.

"I didn't realize anyone was out here," Massie said. She shuffled her weight around from one foot to the other, her fingers playing with the lace hem of her Lover dress. "Usually people don't come onto the balcony at these things – "

"I just…um…I needed some fresh air." Claire smiled, trying to look like she hadn't been spying on Massie's friends seconds before. "These things can tend to be a little…claustrophobic."

Massie raised an eyebrow and began digging through her silk Sergio Rossi clutch. "Tell me about it," she chuckled, rolling her eyes. She found a cigarette – a slender Gauloises – and held it between her fingers as she spoke. "I've lost track of how many I've been forcedto attend. They're boring."

_You didn't seem bored while you were making your welcome speech, _Claire thought to herself, biting her cheek. _Guess it's only boring when no one's looking at you. _

She nodded apprehensively. "Yeah."

Silence fell over them. Claire refused to let her anxiousness show, and Massie didn't feel confident enough to light her cigarette in front of Claire. It felt like an hour before either spoke, but when Claire checked her phone she realized it had only been minutes.

"You're _Claire, _right?" Massie asked, tossing her cigarette over the balcony in defeat.

As Claire slipped her phone back into her pocket, she nodded. Her enviable pin-straight, blonde hair fell over her shoulders and she could tell, from the way Massie stared at it jealously, that it must be catching the light just right.

She was used to other girls coveting any and every aspect of her appearance. She'd spent years dancing and training with Miami's best personal trainers to ensure a lithe, defined figure; for years, she'd been visiting America's best hairdressers to manage her tresses.

But she hadn't imagined that Massie Block – as Skye had described her, at least – would have any reservations about her thin figure or her neat, even features.

"Hey!"

They both looked up.

"Cam!" Massie gushed. She stood up a little taller, her hazel eyes glittering with delight that couldn't be suppressed. "I thought you'd gone home already."

"Without saying my goodbyes?" he chuckled.

Almost immediately, Claire imagined that he was the most attractive person she'd ever seen: gorgeous in every way, from the crown of his tousled, black hair to the tips of his toes, hidden by Burberry brogues. Like all of Johns Meredith's student representatives, he was growing a neat arrangement of designer stubble; unlike his counterparts he wore his shirt sleeves rolled up, his pants a little tighter around the ankles and his tie loose.

He noticed Claire almost immediately. "Cam Fisher," he said, sticking his hand out.

Claire took it; shook it. "Claire Lyons," she said, baring her teeth. She realized that her mouth – painted a pretty, pale rose pink – was dry. "I'm new."

"I won't tell anyone," he said conspiratorially. Massie laughed nervously and Cam dragged his eyes away from Claire's. "I'm going now," he told her. "Dad enjoyed the open bar a little bit too much; Mom's mortified."

Massie pouted petulantly, obviously trying to sway Cam's decision. "Can't Harris help your mom get him home?" she said. She placed her hand on his bicep. Claire wasn't so naïve that she missed the memo Massie was sending her: _he's mine. _

Cam's resolve seemed to waver for a moment, but his decision seemed made. "Sorry," he told Massie. "I'd better get him into bed before he insults Derrick's dad…again. Remember what happened last time? _Disaster._"

Massie wasn't one to be defeated. "Then, come to my house on Sunday…it'll be the last party of the summer." Claire had to admit, her tenacity was admirable.

Finally, Cam smiled again, and both girls smiled back in response. "It's a deal," he said. He turned to Claire. "Maybe I'll see you there?"

Before Claire could answer, Massie did. "Definitely," she said. "Claire's practically family now…did you know, _her_ dad works for _my_ dad?"

Cam shook his head. "No, I didn't…but that's cool."

Claire flattened herself against the wall behind her and nodded. "Um…practically neighbors."

Cam exchanged air kisses with Massie and left. As soon as he was gone, Massie fixed her eyes on Claire, summing her up with a glance. "I guess I'll see you on Sunday…bring your bathing suit," she said, before turning on her heel and slipping back into the room.

_Or not. _Claire couldn't be less enthusiastic to go to Massie's house; to spend time with her, and her nasty friends. _But Skye's diary might be there, _she reminded herself, _so going to Massie's little party might be a perfect opportunity to get it back. _

_And don't think I didn't notice that little dig about my dad, _Claire added, bitterly. _Rude. _Inside, she could hear Alicia and Dylan grilling Massie about their encounter. "Ew," Alicia was saying. "Did you have to invite the new girl?"

Massie narrowed her eyes. "Her father's kind of responsible for my dad's safety Alicia – _and_ mine. The least I can do is play nice with his daughter," she answered, her tone self-righteous.

_She's not going to mention Cam – or that he's the reason she invited me, _Claire realized. _They mustn't know that she likes him_…

Dylan's mood became even darker. She abandoned her virgin Bloody Mary on the table beside her. "But, she's practically turned looking good in a bikini into a _job, _Massie."

"What's your point?"

"I…nothing," Dylan huffed, defeated.

"That's what I thought."

Claire had never really had friends – only Skye – but the dynamic between Dylan, Massie and Alicia didn't seem like a friendly one. In fact, it seemed like the opposite of friendliness: it seemed like rivalry. Each one of them was clamoring to outdo the other.

_They can't even relax around each other. _They shuffled about nervously, clinging onto their virgin cocktails and adjusting their hair self-consciously. _Shouldn't you be able to relax around your friends? _

Trudi Lyons stuck her head onto the balcony and glanced around, her wavy blonde tresses blowing around in the slight wind. The weather was already significantly cooler than they were used to in Florida, and though Claire hadn't realized it before, she was shivering in her cocktail dress.

"There you are, pumpkin," Trudi said, her navy blue eyes falling on Claire's slight frame. Standing at the door put her within arms-length: the balcony had only just held Claire, Massie, Cam and a potted plant comfortably.

"Hey, Mom." Claire sighed and held out her arms for a hug. Her mother pulled her close and rested her head on Claire's crown.

"Gosh, what a night, huh?"

"Yeah." Claire scoffed. "And people think pageant mom's are crazy. Did you see the lady who brought her poodle? She's been feeding it canapés all night…"

Trudi Lyons rolled her eyes.

Middle-aged women were standing in cliques around Aria's parquet-floored function room, nattering away in their hoarse, shrill voices and barking out laughter over hundred-dollar glasses of wine.

Compared to them, Trudi looked plain and unadorned in her neon yellow, silk Piper Lane kaftan – and yet, despite the thousands they'd spent on surgery, personal trainers and cosmetic enhancements, not one of them could hold a candle to Trudi.

Jay Lyons always said that his wife had never looked a day over twenty-nine and as cliché as the phrase was, Claire had to agree.

Trudi played with one of the diamond drop earrings she was wearing as she gazed in at the function room from their secluded spot behind a potted fir. "You hiding out here, Claire bear?"

Claire nodded. "You know me…I – "

" – hate these things," Trudi finished, nodding exaggeratedly. "I know, I know. I just…I'd love to have seen you spending time with some of your classmates. It'd ease my nerves a little about this whole…_transition period_."

"I spoke to one of them," Claire said defensively. "Massie and I were out here talking, like, ten minutes ago."

Trudi bristled. "Right…Miss Massie." They glanced through the window at Alicia, Massie and Dylan. Claire could feel her mother's disapproval radiating from her body. "These girls sure are a different breed," she said.

Claire shrugged.

"They're so…oh, I don't know," Trudi continued, grumbling. "They're so preoccupied with being adults that they're forgetting to enjoy being teenagers."

"Well, Mom." Claire sighed. She turned her head to the side as she watched Alicia trot to Josh Hotz' side, flipping her hair and sashaying on her bronze heels. "It's not that different to what we're used to – just one big beauty contest."

Trudi shook her head. "Not really – every beauty contest has a winner, and I don't see any winners here."

Claire rolled her eyes. "Massie, Mom. _Duh._"

_Isn't having your enemies exiled to far-off lands, like, the definition of winning? _Claire asked herself. Skye would be settling into their new apartment in Hong Kong by now, along with Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton.

"Nope. You mark my words, Claire bear – that girl's as big of a loser as the rest of them."

But with the majority of the room's eyes focussed on Massie, it was hard for Claire to imagine that she was the one losing out. She hugged her mom a little tighter.

"Maybe you're right," she said. _But I doubt it. _


	4. Chapter 3

Circular Driveway

The Block Estate

Sunday 6 September, 2009

1:45 P.M.

* * *

According to Claire's harried Google search, _Town and Country _had once described the Block estate as contemporary and austere. _Not the words I would have used, _Claire thought as she stared up at the imposing architecture of the main house – if it were up to her, maybe she'd use something like 'heartless.' Everything, from the Corinthian columns to the fountain of koi fish in the circular driveway, seemed designed to send a message: _we're better than you, and we want you to know it._

Despite it's coldness, Claire was hard-pressed to think of a more beautiful home. She was sure they existed, but she just couldn't call them to mind in the moment. But this monolith of classic fusion American architecture felt like a page torn out of a magazine; she'd rather live in her parents' first, small apartment in the middle of South Beach – the one she'd lived in until her older brother, Todd, had started primary school and her father's company had begun to see some financial returns. At least that place, however cramped and down-trodden its layout had been, had felt like someone's home.

She found herself glued to one place: the driver's seat of her father's silver, vintage Aston Martin, staring at a _fleur de lis _which spun lazily atop a turret. Someone honked, screaming to a stop behind her: a Jeep with a custom license plate that read "DRICK." Someone had scratched away at the R until it was almost gone.

"Excuse me, ma'am."

She looked out of the window. The valet, who'd been waiting calmly and quietly during her five minute breakdown, was beginning to lose patience.

"Um…yeah. No, I get it. I'll – I'll come in now," she told him, reaching blindly behind her for Valentino Kaleido tote.

DRICK exited his vehicle at the same time Claire did, passing his keys off to a second valet. He was tall, broad and blonde; chiseled features and messy hair. He caught Claire's eye, and she smiled nervously.

"Hey."

"I – hi." She ran her hand along her ponytail. "Claire Lyons. I'm…new to Westchester."

"Derrick Harrington, Jr. I've lived here my whole life. Pleased to meet you." He smiled warmly and gestured to the house. "Need a guide? Massie's house is a fucking maze; it took me years to figure it out."

Claire nodded and smiled, relieved. She had been planning on following behind Derrick (like an awkward shadow, trailing him) but walking alongside him sounded superior. "That'd be nice," she told him. As they walked, Claire first and Derrick a step behind her (with his hand on the small of her back), she pretended not to notice his occasional glances toward her butt, or the small amount of cleavage she had on display. Pretending not to notice people staring at her was a habit she practiced often.

They passed through the doors, shedding their jackets and leaving them with a woman who wore a name tag declaring her to be Inez. In her hands, Inez clutched several other coats; in the cold, marble-floored foyer, she was the only warmth. "Mister Harrington," Inez said, clearly excited to see him. She leaned forward, letting Derrick place a chaste kiss on her cheek. "It's been so long! And yet, still the flirt you always were…"

He hugged the older woman. "Flattery will get you everywhere. You made that dip I like, Inez?"

"Yes, Mister Harrington: pesto, capsicum and French onion; just the way you like it."

"This woman is a miracle worker," Derrick told Claire offside, his arm still around Inez's round shoulders. "When I'm on death row, I'll demand her cooking for my last meal."

Inez's mouth formed a perfect O. "Don't, Derrick! Don't speak like that."

"_Suppli…_and risotto," he added. Claire laughed; Inez swatted him away. "Inez, this is Claire Lyons."

"Nice to meet you," Claire said, sticking out her hand.

"I've met your father many times," Inez told Claire, leaning forward for emphasis and shaking Derrick's arm away. "He's a _wonderful _man."

Claire ducked her head in embarrassment. "Isn't he? My father is the new security supervisor for the Block family," Claire explained to Derrick, whose brow had creased in confusion. _May as well let him know sooner than later that I'm practically staff, _she thought. _Maybe then he'll stop staring at my tits._

"Oh, cool."

Inez hung their coats in a cupboard in the hall, carefully labelling them with the names of their owners. Satisfied that the job was done, she turned back to Claire and Derrick, who had now moved to Claire's side and was consulting his phone. "Now go, you two, before Massie sees me fraternizing and I get into trouble."

Massie could, in fact, see them fraternizing. She hadn't meant to hide, or eavesdrop; she'd merely gone upstairs to change her shoes and earrings. It wasn't her fault that Kori Geddman had shown up wearing the same Missoni wedges that she'd picked out, or Olivia Ryan the same pair of Versace earrings. But she'd be damned if she was going to be seen in the same accessories as one of her B-list guests.

Then, of course, she'd left her room and stood awkwardly on the second floor landing, gawking at Derrick and Claire together. They'd looked so _right _– just the two of them – that, for some reason, she hadn't wanted to interrupt. _Like brother and sister, _she thought, trying to reassure herself. _Not that I care – I _don't_ have feelings for Derrick. That's _so _yesterday's news._

Or, it would have been, if Derrick was capable of leaving things in the past. Had he really texted her yesterday, saying "I miss you," or had she made that up? In her current position – hiding in her own home – it was sort of hard to remember. Plus, Inez was right: Derrick was a flirt. Always had been, always would be. He probably meant _I miss you in a platonic way, _not _I miss you let's get back together._

Before she could dwell on that thought any longer, she decided to spare herself and make her entrance.

"I like to think I'm a benevolent dictator, Inez," she said sweetly, admiring her own hand as it glided along the mahogany bannister. She'd had it freshly manicured yesterday with O.P.I's newest summer-red; a shade she'd had before anyone else thanks to her mother's connections. "You won't be punished for greeting guests. It's part of your job description, after all…"

Massie glanced at Derrick, but regretted it instantly. There was a look on his face that she couldn't describe: half of a smirk, a third of a smile and the rest…smoldering desire? Regret and compassion? The sight of him sent pangs of sadness shooting through her heart – she couldn't help but think of the cold way he'd dumped her a week before summer had started. It was the last conversation they'd had face-to-face. _Skye's fault, _she reminded herself. It was a mantra she repeated to herself whenever she felt guilty or sad lately. _Skye's fault, Skye's fault, Skye's fault…_it hadn't helped much.

_I don't care, _she reminded herself. She smiled at him placidly, trying on her best poker face. _I don't care about Skye Hamilton and I _absolutely_ do not care what Derrick does _– she turned her fake smile on Claire – _or with who._

Claire smiled back brilliantly. Massie wondered if she'd spent as many hours or thousands in the offices of orthodontists as Massie had. Throughout middle school Massie had been plagued with braces, which she'd decorated with co-ordinating purple and pink bands. Looking back at the photos was mortifying.

"Claire. I'm so glad you could come." She put her hands on her hips and shook her long hair out over her shoulder. "Everyone's outside. Care to join?"

"Um…sure."

Massie led the way, simultaneously hoping and not-hoping that Derrick was checking out her butt as she sashayed across the polished wood floor of the main hallway. As she walked, she pointed out every room she passed. _As if Claire would ever need a reason to know her way around. _She passed a particularly well-appointed room, the walls of which were entirely glass. "The conservatory," she said. It looked out over the pool, the grounds, the stables (recently converted to her mother's own personal hot yoga studio) and darkest green, rolling hills.

They stepped outside. The weather was becoming chill but, like most of the girls who stood or lounged around the Block's Olympic-sized swimming pool, Massie was woefully underdressed for the cold. She hugged her arms around herself, self-conscious about her goosebumps; _at least there's no hairs standing on end on_ my _body, _she thought, noticing the dark, black hair standing upright on the arms of Layne Abeley, who stood nearby…_arm-waxing was the best idea I ever had._

"And this is the pool," she told Claire, finishing her tour. "It's heated."

Claire turned to look at it. "If it's heated, why is no one in it?"

"Going in the pool would result in getting wet," Derrick said, his usual obnoxious, sarcastic self. "That's vulgar."

Massie rolled her eyes. "Your presence is vulgar, Derrick," she snapped. She regretted it instantly: Derrick seemed wounded. _Don't care, don't care, don't care, _she reminded herself. But she did. She considered apologising, but as she opened her mouth she found the words didn't come out. "Getting in the pool would be a waste of good makeup, Claire."

"Claire! You're here."

Three heads turned in Cam Fisher's direction. He waved lamely, and Massie ogled his exposed flesh – which was pretty much what she'd been doing all day, anyway. She had to get over Derrick somehow, after all…

Claire waved back. "I'm here."

"Are you hungry, Claire?" Massie asked, wishing she could turn back time. _Why did I invite Claire to my party? Stupid move. Cam's being so nice to her, which means he probably likes her, and I could have diverted his attention if she were sitting in her lame, ugly house all alone instead of…well, instead of being here. _Not that Massie _knew _where Claire lived, but she could only assume it was lame and ugly.

It didn't help Massie's mood much that Claire was fresh-faced and gorgeous in her see-through Escada kaftan; her simple, black, push-up Lilly Beach bandeau bikini was peeking through, and Massie could make out the outline of her flat stomach, lean thighs and well-defined chest.

"Oh, I'm good. I won't be hungry for, like…a hour or two," she said, toying with the ends of her ponytail and the neckline of her beaded kaftan. Dylan had been right to point out the insanity of inviting a girl who'd won trophies on the merit of her bikini body to a small gathering; Massie felt dowdy in her high-waisted Tory Burch mix 'n' match set.

"You look…great," she choked out. "There's crudités by the cabana; help yourself."

Every eye was on Claire as she crossed to an empty pool chair, Derrick and Cam trailing after her. "I am _not _a fan," Alicia hissed under her breath. Massie started; she been so distracted, she hadn't realized that anyone had been left standing nearby her.

She rolled her eyes – half affectionate, half irritated. "You're never a fan of anything that takes attention away from you," she pointed out, scoffing. She tried to keep her tone light-hearted, but there was only so much of Alicia's vanity that she could take.

They watched as Claire shed her kaftan, and Massie's hazel eyes widened. "And even _you_ have to admit that she's…"

Chris Plovert, who was lying in a nearby hammock, whistled at Claire appreciatively. A few boys cheered; girls laughed nervously. Claire blushed, and Massie's eyes narrowed.

"Attention-seeking?" Alicia suggested.

"Eyes gravitate towards her."

Alicia shrugged. "Let's talk about something else."

_Gladly. _"Where's Kristen?" Massie asked, turning her back on the spectacle that Claire and Derrick were making of themselves. With nothing more than a wave of her hand, she sent a nearby admirer running to fetch her a gin and tonic – _fresh _lime.

Kristen's absence was a blow she wasn't taking lightly. Kristen had _never _missed one of Massie's pool parties – _what, now she's Head Prefect, she's too good to fraternize with her friends?_

"Kristen was invited?" Alicia giggled and raised an eyebrow; sipped at Pimms and ginger ale from a plastic Solo cup. "Sorry for my surprise. It's just…she hasn't been around much this summer."

_Subtle. _Massie turned her head and rolled her eyes as she did so; a small, secret expression of frustration at Alicia's conniving attitude towards 'friendship' – she lived to gather other people's secrets. She let the question sit between them as she sipped her drink. "She's been very busy," she said, diplomatically, "so she hasn't had as much time for socializing – but she's _always _welcome here."

Alicia scoffed, flipping her black ringlets over her shoulder. "Does she know that?"

"Did you?" Massie snapped. _You know everything, after all._

Claire watched them sadly. She couldn't tell if they were exchanging pleasantries or insults – and a part of her could only assume that they didn't know what they were exchanging, either. There was a closeness in the air about them; a comfort that stemmed from years of near proximity.

She wondered if they'd been friends longer than she and Skye had; if, maybe, relationships just soured as they matured.

"Those two have been friends since preschool," Derrick informed her, as if she'd been thinking aloud. He uncapping a Peroni with a keychain bottle opener. "They're on-again, off-again. All of Massie's relationships are on-again, off-again…friendships included."

Cam, sitting on Claire's other side, cleared his throat. "That's…I'm not sure that's a fair assessment, D," he countered.

Derrick pulled his phone from his pocket and stared at its screen, determined not to make eye contact. "It's fair enough."

As they argued their point, Claire put on her Karen Walker shades and watched Massie from a distance. Dylan had joined them now and stood beside her, fidgeting in her scarlet Miu Miu one-piece. "Who's that?" Claire asked, feigning ignorance.

"Dylan Marvil."

"As in, Merri-Lee Marvil?"

Derrick nodded enthusiastically; stared a little too appreciatively at Dylan's curves. On the other side of the pool, Dylan fidgeted, as if she knew Derrick was watching her, but seemed resolved not to look in his direction. "Her mom," he told Claire.

Claire nodded. After a few minutes she stood and stretched. "Would you two excuse me for a moment?" she said over the bass thumping through the state of the art Bose sound system. "I think I left something in my car…"

Cam and Derrick nodded, both invested in other things: Cam was sprawled out, shirtless, on a deck chair with a battered copy of _1984 _clutched in his hands and a panama hat on his head; Derrick was still invested in his phone. Neither seemed perturbed by her excuse, so she figured she was safe – to some degree.

The Block house was labyrinthian – Derrick hadn't been exaggerating. It occurred to Claire, belatedly, that she probably should have asked Skye about it's layout before she'd arrived. As it was, she'd left her phone in her bag (which was currently on the deck chair between two of Westchester's finest) – too late to turn back now.

_Second floor, _Claire guessed. She slowed her pace as she approached the foyer, but Inez wasn't at her post. A single door was ajar on the second floor. _And just my luck, _Claire thought. _It couldn't be more obviously Massie's._

Everything in the room, from the walls to the bedspread, was pristine; everything was covered in shades of beige, white, black and grey but for a single Murano glass vase stuffed with beautifully arranged violet orchids and baby's breath.

"Nice," Claire whispered as she walked across the room. It, like everything in this house, was twice the size it needed to be. _But where the fuck am I supposed to find a diary?_

It came to Claire's attention that she didn't really have a clue what the diary looked like; merely that it had a black, leather cover. What size was it? How thick? What if she blew her chance, smuggling her book home only to discover that it was something useless like Massie's old History notebook or something?

From the hall came the sound of light footfall – barely even noticeable at first and so quiet that Claire knew, as soon as she heard them, that hearing them meant they must be close.

_Shit._

Without thinking, she scrambled for the bed and fell to the floor, rolling under its gauzy runner. Seconds later, a pair of elegant Louboutin wedges and two bare feet painted Big Apple Red came into Claire's line of sight. They turned to face each other. _What am I doing with my life? _she asked herself._I'm Miss Teen USA, and I'm hiding under a stranger's bed…because I'm planning on stealing something from her…_

God, CNN would have a field day with that…

"It's none of your business," Massie told her companion; it was an answer to a question, and a heated one at that.

"It's _all _of my business – written down in a neat, legible format." _Alicia. _Claire tried to quiet and slow her breathing, and clapped her palm over her mouth. Adrenalin was racing through her bloodstream.

"I tore it out."

"You're a liar."

"You saw me do it!"

They paused and the Louboutins began pacing around the room. Claire could be ninety percent sure that they belonged to Alicia, due to the olive complexion of their wearer, but Massie seemed to be pretty into the bronzed look…she was sporting a heavy St. Tropez tan. One of them sighed.

"Don't you get my frustration? We're going back to school now, M: we can't just _pretend _that nothing happened. What we did to Skye was fucked up – I mean, I danced at her mom's studio. We slept at her house like, every other weekend. We never even_ spoke _to her about_ –_ "

Massie sniffled. "Don't."

_So bitches do feel remorse. _Claire rolled her eyes, even though no one could see it. _Who knew?_

Massie continued her line of reasoning. "Sure I get your frustration – but it's misplaced. I didn't do_anything. _And neither did you. Skye Hamilton got what was coming to her."

_Or not…_

"But you still have the book."

_The book? Are they talking about Skye's diary_…_? _Claire perked up a little bit. Maybe Massie would casually mention where it was hidden and when they left, Claire could crawl out, snatch it and make a run for her car. She couldn't help that her interest was piqued, though: _what is in this book that has everyone so_ _riled up?_

Massie sighed. Alicia was being particularly difficult. Massie hadn't even meant to say anything – it had just slipped out. Someone had mentioned Skye's absence, Dylan had mentioned Mr. Hamilton's promotion (if you could even call it that), and before she knew it, Massie had mentioned to Alicia that she hadn't burnt the book like she'd said she would. Why bother? It wasn't like anyone was going to see it. Massie had managed to keep its continued existence a secret, and the only people who knew anything about it – other than Skye – were in this room.

_Case closed._

"What do you want? Shared custody?" she hissed.

Massie crossed to her bedside table and extracted it from the bottom drawer. She'd been reading it last night before she'd fallen asleep, and discovered some especially juicy information about Chris Abeley's long-term girlfriend, Dawn, that she wished she'd known three years ago. Maybe, if she had, things would have been different – and she wouldn't have ended up with Derrick Harrington, Jr., Professional Flirt and Heartbreaker.

_But the rest…_remembering the things she'd read sent a chill up her exposed spine. There were certain things about certain people – people you cared about – that you just weren't meant to know. _Ever. _She shoved the book into Alicia's limp hands.

Alicia recoiled as if burnt by it, palming it back to Massie. "Fuck no. I don't want anything to do with it. And you shouldn't, either."

"That's sweet, Alicia – but let's see how long that conscience lasts." She tossed the book onto the bed, disgusted. But, even though she was putting on a tough act for Alicia, she found that her willingness to touch it was inversely proportionate to the amount of it she read. "People are probably wondering where we are," she said, sighing. "Let's just go back downstairs; we'll talk about this at a time that's more…appropriate."

As they left the room, Massie closed the door. Over the years she had developed a theory that when doors were closed, it was easier to pretend that what had happened behind them, hadn't.

And she had become good at pretending.


	5. Chapter 4

The Administrative Lobby

The School of Blessed Alix Le Clercq

Tuesday 7 September, 2009

7:45 A.M.

* * *

Claire shifted nervously in her chair, running her finger along the plunging hemline of her vintage French lace, kimono-sleeved wrap blouse. Add to that her oldest, thinnest J Crew jeans and she felt positively naked, but judging by the almost vulgar outfits she'd seen on the girls she'd passed in the halls, she could only assume that the school's dress-code was…lax.

A navy blazer – the only item of clothing students were required to wear at Blessed Alix Le Clercq, excluding the navy tartan pinafores and ascots reserved for 'formal' occasions like assemblies and bi-annual awards ceremonies – was slung over her chair.

"Dr. Gregory won't be much longer," the secretary manning the teak counter assured her. "She's finishing up an important phone call."

Claire nodded.

The stained French doors to her left opened, letting the competing perfumes that wafted through the hall violate the Administrative Lobby's otherwise clean, fresh air. Massie Block – the absolute last person Claire wanted to see – entered, with her mother in tow and a bottle of Pellegrino in her hands. She was talking erratically, her voice an octave higher than usual.

Claire sunk lower into her seat, praying that Massie wouldn't notice her. It didn't help that she was obviously talking about the diary Claire had stolen from her bedroom only days before.

_Stolen_ back_, _Claire thought, correcting herself. _It didn't belong to Massie in the first place. _

" – I'm _convinced _someone stole it," Massie announced, curling her fists into tight little balls by her sides.

Kendra Block, Massie's supposedly cold-hearted mother (according to Claire's most reliable source on Westchester's older residents: Natascha Hamilton), seemed less than enthralled with Massie's story. "Inez might have moved it," she said. "Did you ask her?"

"Are you joking?" Massie hissed back, but she did so quietly, so that her mother wouldn't hear. "_Duh._"

Claire pushed herself backwards into her chair, wishing she would just blend into it…_maybe if I stay still, she won't notice me, _she reasoned, as if Massie were some kind of half-blind, voracious animal that she was hiding from. _It wouldn't be a stretch to imagine that I stole her diary – I was missing for a long time. _

Thankfully, no one had seen Claire tiptoeing down the stairs with a diary in her hands, and none of the valets had noticed the book because she'd hidden it in leather jacket she'd handed to Inez earlier and stolen back from the coat closet; bundled it up and stuffed it under her arm, hoping that her exposed flesh would be enough to distract the male staff from asking questions.

She thanked God for a few small mercies – like the fact that her father hadn't yet installed his proposed thirty-two-camera security system for the Block estate, and the perfectly toned butt she'd been able to use to her advantage.

Massie tossed a manilla envelope onto the counter and turned to a open guest book, in which she scribbled for a few moments before handing the pen to Kendra. Kendra signed dutifully and turned on her heel.

Naturally, she spotted Claire – still recoiling against the ugly, uncomfortable armchair on which she sat – immediately. "_Claire Lyons, _is that you?" she purred.

Claire had met Kendra and William Block once, during a visit to the Block's office (shortly before her family had relocated to Westchester county). She had assumed that she hadn't made much of an impression on Kendra due to her evident disinterest in the entire meeting – she'd been far more enthralled by her constantly-vibrating Blackberry – but apparently she'd been wrong.

Kendra put her hands on her hips a smiled; she was good, Claire thought, watching her painted lips spread over dry, white teeth. Claire was better: she could tell Kendra's smile was fake.

"Hi, Mrs. Block," she said weakly, resolutely not looking in Massie's direction. She fixed her bright blue eyes on her neon and tan leather MM6 gladiator sandals. "It's such a pleasure to see you."

"An unexpected pleasure," Kendra continued. "What _are _you doing here?"

"It's her first day, _Mom,_" Massie said, interrupting. Her voice was laced with pure bitch. "She's probably here to see Dr. Gregory – you know, like every other new student?"

She gestured about the room; several other teenagers sat, pretending to be immersed in iPads, outdated copies of _US Weekly _and e-readers. _Obviously new students, _Claire realized. She even recognized a few of them from the introductory dinner she'd attended only days ago.

"Do you know what house you're in yet?" Massie asked. She hesitated for a moment before taking the seat beside Claire.

Claire nodded. "My information packet said I was in Amy Lowell house – not that I know what that means – "

"Why, Massie's the _Prefect _of Amy Lowell!"

Claire glanced up at Kendra Block and smiled brightly. Kendra's dark eyes were flashing with excitement; gloating; pride; and Claire suddenly realized where Massie got her mean streak from.

Of course, Kendra didn't realize that Claire knew about a few of the skeletons in her closet. Before the expulsion of the Hamilton family from Westchester, Kendra Block and Natascha Hamilton had been colleagues and confidantes – and after Kendra had turned her back on her supposed 'best friend,' Natascha didn't have many nice things left to say about her.

Like Massie, Kendra was the Queen Bee of her social set. Her minions just happened to be forty years older, a hundred times meaner, and infinitely more influential.

"At BALC, every student is sorted into a 'House,'" Massie explained, rolling her eyes at her mother's preening. "There are competitions throughout the year to rank them all based on academics, athletics and artistic merit. At the end of the year, the House ranked highest wins the House Cup."

"Oh…" Claire frowned. "So which house is the best?"

"Amy Lowell has won the cup every year since 1989."

"Last year they voted Massie to be their Prefect," Kendra added.

Claire bit her cheek. "What an honor," she said.

Except, it wasn't exactly an honor Massie had rightfully earned. The students of Amy Lowell house had elected Skye Hamilton as their Prefect, and when she had been asked to leave the school after the summer, the title was given to the student with the second-highest number of votes: Massie Block.

The door opened again and another girl burst into the room, moving at twice the speed of its other inhabitants. "Hey!" she said breathlessly, sashaying over to the guestbook that Massie and Kendra had just signed. She scrawled a few words and signed her name, then cursed under her breath. "Shit – I got pen ink on my new blazer."

"So?" Massie asked, eyeing it. "These blazer's are hideous. When is your mom going to come to her senses and have them all burnt?"

The girl – blonde, beautiful, and three inches taller than any other person in the room – turned to face them. "Um…never," she said, narrowing her sea-green eyes. "Be thankful for the privilege of relative freedom of dress – Mom's been researching the efficiency of 1970's Communist China and she's been thinking about making the school uniformed."

Kendra shook her head, smiling and chuckling. "Girls, I wouldn't worry. A suggestion like that wouldn't make it past the PTA board."

"Why not? It'd save thirty percent of Westchester's families an absolute fortune on their AMEX bills." She smiled sweetly – falsely – at her mother.

Kristen shuffled awkwardly, looking from Massie to her mother. "Good morning, Mrs. Block," she said, tucking one side of her glossy, neither-wavy-nor-straight hair behind an ear. "How was Barbados?"

"Fantastic, dear – where did your family summer this year?"

"They stayed home this year, but I went to a soccer camp in – "

"Wonderful," Kendra said, cutting Kristen off. "That sounds…constructive."

Massie's face fell, giving away her mortification. Her mother took delight in embarrassing and belittling others – even more so in mocking Massie's friends and other BALC students. Sometimes Massie imagined that Kendra had missed her true calling: being the judge no one likes on _American Idol. _ "Kristen, this is Claire," she said.

"Oh…! Um…Claire _Lyons?_"

Claire nodded and crossed her arms, trying to hide some of the cleavage she had on display. From her position between Massie's chaste Prada pencil skirt and Kristen's androgynous jeans-and-button down, she felt positively indecent.

"Awesome. I'm Kristen Gregory – "

"Head Prefect," Massie interjected. Her mother smirked, shoving her hands into the pockets of her Oscar de la Renta suit pants.

Kristen's cheeks flushed. She opened her mouth, seemly considering a retort, but thought better of it at the last second and lowered her eyes to her velvet slippers. "Um…we should go in now, Claire."

"Nice meeting you, darling," Kendra said, positively radiating with delight. "Good seeing you again, Kristen – you look great."

As they walked away, Kristen nudged Claire. "So I see you're familiar with the Real Housewives of Westchester." She rolled her eyes upwards, towards the painted ceiling. "Gag me."

"Just that one," Claire answered. "How many are there?"

"Kendra, Merri-Lee Marvil, Nadia Rivera and…" Kristen paused. "Well, that's all that's left of them now."

Though she was intrigued that Kristen refused to mention Skye's mom, she didn't say anything. No one knew that she and Skye had ever _met, _let alone that they were closer than close, and that was working in her favor – somewhat. Especially since Massie was on the hunt for Skye's missing diary.

She thought of it unwillingly. When she'd gotten home on Sunday she'd thrown it onto her desk and refused to look at it for longer than a second. Last night she'd tossed and turned last night, resisting the urge to open it and find out what was in it that had everyone – even Skye – going into meltdown.

It was Skye's private property – full of secrets, probably – and Claire wasn't going to violate her best and only friend's trust.

"She's a piece of work, huh?"

Claire shrugged. "I've met worse."

Dr. Gregory looked like she'd been sitting at her desk – motionless – since Claire's meeting with her a week ago. She was even wearing the same tweed suit and pressed white men's shirt.

_Efficiency, _Kristen mouthed. She cleared her throat. "Mom. I believe you've met Claire Lyons."

Her mother didn't look up. "I _don't_ believe I summoned you, Kristen."

Kristen pulled a crumpled pink slip covered in controlled cursive from her pocket. "Actually, you did." She balled up the paper and tossed it into a wastepaper basket. "Claire and I will be late for House if we wait any longer."

_Not that I was doing much waiting. _Kristen held back a sigh, thinking of the twenty blissful minutes she'd just spent in the bathroom with Dempsey Solomon. She'd left him on a high she thought she'd never come down from – before running into Kendra Block, Queen Bitch, who'd turned her once-tolerable daughter, Massie, into her unbearable protégé.

_Dempsey, Dempsey, Dempsey…_Kristen felt a pink blush rising to her cheeks. Then, immediately, she felt overwhelmed with guilt. _That was the last time, _she promised herself. _No more. _

"House?" Claire asked.

"House meetings," Kristen and her mother answered in unison. "It's a tutor group," Kristen added. "You 'attend a meeting to discuss upcoming events and interface with younger and older students about academics and social pressures.' Mostly we just take attendance and talk about _Gossip Girl._"

"Will Layne be attending school today?" her mom asked, her eyes still fixed on the contract she was reading. She seemed less than delighted with Kristen's explanation.

"She, um…no. Flu." Kristen shrugged.

"Hmm."

Thankfully, Claire was accustomed to uncomfortable silences. "I received my class list and I did have a query…"

Dr. Gregory finally looked up, adjusting her glasses. "Yes?"

"I seem to be in a large number of AP classes and…um…I've been home-schooled for my entire life. I'm just not sure if AP classes will be difficult to get used to after such a – "

"It is not the policy of this school to _mollycoddle _its students. Your academic transcript is exemplary, and I trust that I can continue to expect such _exemplary _results in your academic life…and personal."

Kristen rolled her eyes. It was a speech she'd been the recipient of countless times; so many so that it had become completely ineffective on her. Her mother used the same gestures and mannerisms each time she delivered it, down to the furrowed brows and steepled hands.

Claire, however, seemed impressed by the curt and authoritative tone by which she'd been addressed. She nodded. "Um…if you think so."

"I know so. You may go."

"Are you serious? Isn't there some other schtick that you impose on new kids – explanations of rules? Outlines of expectations?" Kristen blurted out, leaning forward in her chair. "I'm sure Claire has questions that she'd like answers to. Don't you, Claire?"

Claire shook her head. She looked innocent and sweet, with her blonde waves falling over her shoulders. "Actually, no," she said, her ice blue eyes growing wide. "Not that I can think of…"

"Oh." Kristen sat back. "Um…ok."

Her mother stared at her disdainfully from behind her antique desk, framed by hundreds of thousands of dollars in antique literature. She lowered her hideous 1980's eyeglasses – the same ones she'd _actually had _since the 1980's, when she was at Vassar – and examined Kristen from behind them. "If she does happen to have questions, Kristen, I expect they shall be addressed to you."

Kristen couldn't have scrambled quicker to gather her things and escape.

She led Claire from the office, thankful to see that Massie was no longer sitting in the Administrative Lobby. Things between them had been awkward – no matter _what _she said – since last year's Head Prefecture announcement.

_That's not even my problem, _Kristen thought, miserable. She and Massie had attended the same schools since preschool and become close in middle school; she knew Massie as well as anyone could. _Maybe if she spent more time studying and less time party-planning, she'd be Head Prefect… _

Of course, Massie hadn't taken well to losing the school's most illustrious title, but she'd positively lost it when the students of Amy Lowell House had chosen Skye Hamilton as their Prefect over Massie.

Kristen's mood darkened ever more as she thought of Skye. _She never even told me she was leaving; she didn't even say goodbye to me before she left…who _does _that? _

"To your left you'll see the Hotz-Gregory Institute for Advanced Sciences," Kristen intoned, doing her best impression of an air stewardess. "Estimated completion, 2013."

"_Gregory?_"

Claire's mouth fell open. She stopped and looked out of the window; the second floor of the main building looked out onto a construction site that hadn't been there a week ago when she'd toured the campus with her father.

"Josh Hotz was expelled from Johns Meredith two years ago for pulling some stupid prank with the fire alarms; his parents shipped him off to some boarding school in Rhode Island. He hated it and wanted to come back, so they pledged the funds for a learning centre to get him back in."

"And…?"

"The centre's on BALC grounds – Mom told Johns Meredith that they'd only have access to it when Josh was accepted back into the school."

"Moira Gregory, you sly fox."

Kristen laughed. Students gawked as she walked side-by-side with Claire – at Claire or at her, she wasn't sure. Or maybe they were gawking to see Kristen Gregory, _one of Massie's inner circle_, walking along the hallway with someone new.

_Never happens, _Kristen admitted. She turned to Claire. "So what's your deal, anyway?"

Claire balked. "What do you mean?"

"You know…smart beauty queen abandons the crown for upstate New York Ivy-feeder school – what's the deal with that? I saw your transcript and your PSAT scores." She whistled aloud, thinking of the astronomical score Claire had earned. "Impressive."

Technically, she wasn't supposedto have access to that kind of information – but being a figure of authority amongst the student body _and _the Principal's daughter had given her access to a _lot _of information she wasn't supposed to have.

Claire laughed. "Succinct; brutally honest…impressive."

A bright, beaming smile came, unbidden, across Kristen's face. So Claire could read between the lines – good. That was a skill she'd need if she was going to survive BALC…and Massie Block. "I'm serious! I mean, when did you start doing pageants?"

"About three months after I started walking."

"Why?"

Claire pulled out her phone; tapped away at the screen until she thrust it into Kristen's hands. "That's _my _mom," she said, gesturing at the image: a vintage 1980's photograph of a tall, blonde woman in a dangerously skimpy electric blue bathing suit. "Miss Hawaiian Tropics 1985. Former beauty queen and bikini model."

"Stage Mom?"

"_Smart _Mom," Claire clarified defensively as they passed through the archway into the main hall. Kristen gestured to her own locker – covered in stickers and notes – and they paused as she unlocked it.

"When I was young," Claire continued, "my dad was in the military and my mom was getting too old to compete in pageants and too busy to balance family and photo shoots – so she put me in competitions instead. Grandma used to make my costumes, Mom used to do all my beauty treatments, and by middle school I'd saved enough money to pay for college upfront from my winnings."

"So your family's…poor?"

"My family is prudent. We're upper middle class," Claire murmured. She glanced around the room at the girls who toted laptops and school supplies in their Louis Vuitton bags. "Not that any of the girls around here would be likely to think so…"

Kristen frowned, but didn't push the point. Beauty competitions seemed stupid to her – stupid, and anti-feminist. "I don't know…I guess I just feel like pageants are more likely to hinder your future than help it."

Kristen was preoccupied by the books she was rifling through; she didn't notice as Claire's eyes narrowed and she crossed her arms across her chest. _Of course _Kristen didn't understand and of course she would demean the things she hadn't experienced or didn't know; she'd assumed as much.

But Skye had insisted that Kristen would be a good friend to her – had been the only girl in Westchester that Skye liked and had felt comfortable around – and that had inspired some hope in Claire.

_Smart beauty queen abandons the crown for upstate New York Ivy-feeder school – what's the deal with that?_

Kristen slammed her locker shut and they began to wind their way through the compression of students gathered in the hall. "We'll go to Home and then I'll show you to your locker," Kristen told her as they slipped past a throng of gawking freshman. Claire ducked her head.

_What's the deal with that? _Claire thought, staring at the checkerboard tiles. _If only you knew…_

* * *

For those of you who are interested, a cast for this story is now available on my page.  
Thank you to **Kim, Janai, Angela, SSS, Amazingxlivexlovexlaughx3  
**and my two anonymous reviewers for your kind words.

Big, big love to **PLDLAURA** and **Cella Fille **for following this story!

AS PER USUAL:  
Questions are always welcome.


	6. Chapter 5

Room #1805

Johns Meredith School for Boys

Monday 13 September, 2009

1:45 P.M.

* * *

"So what's the deal with this new Callie girl?"

Josh Hotz leant back in his chair and kicked his leather Tods brogues onto the desk in front of him. It had been two years, three months and one week since he'd last stepped foot onto the parquet floors or pristine, manicured lawns of Johns Meredith's campus – a forced exclusion since he was 'asked to leave' the school in 2007.

Now that he was back, it felt like no time had passed: he was still the king. He _was, _however, a king ruling over an entirely new court.

"Former Miss Teen USA 2008," Chris Plovert said from his left, not looking up from his copy of _A Clockwork Orange. _

"_Nice_ – bikini pics…?"

"Are but a Google search away."

Cam Fisher rolled his eyes at Josh's antics. Obviously he hadn't done much growing in the years he'd spent swanning around America's best boarding schools – he was still the same asinine prick he'd been in middle school. "Her name is _Claire,_" he hissed.

What he didn't say – no matter how sorely tempted he was – was that she deserved a lot more than being ogled by losers like Josh Hotz and…Kemp Hurley. Cam sighed and smacked Kemp's iPhone out of his hands. "Dude, seriously?" he hissed. The phone landed face-up, revealing a screen full of bikini-clad Claire's.

"If she didn't want me to look, she shouldn't have put it out there," Kemp said sagely.

As per usual, Derrick Harrington was the last student to enter the classroom. He sauntered over to their tight grouping of six tables and took the last, beside Dempsey Solomon. "Let him look at the pictures, Cam," he said indulgently, leaning over to ruffle Kemp's messy hair. "It's the closest he'll come to seeing a half-naked girl until college."

Kemp put his phone away and crossed his arms over his chest uncomfortably. "Dude…rude."

"Dude, don't care." Derrick grinned devilishly and turned to Cam. "Besides, these poor boys weren't lucky enough to see the real thing."

Even Cam, the eternal white knight, would admit that Claire – dressed in nothing but a skimpy black bikini, golden hair flowing over her shoulders and face sweet and bare – was a magnificent sight. He was almost mournful that she hadn't arrived earlier in the summer, when there would have been plentiful opportunities to see such a sight.

But there were things you thought privately and things you discussed openly. For Cam, talk of semi-naked girls was always inappropriate. And therein was the difference between him and everyone else at Johns Meredith – because a half-naked Claire Lyons was all _anyone _could talk about.

While the school's Professor of Modern History lectured, Cam wondered why all the talk about Claire bothered him so much.

Maybe it was because she was sweet, and earnest, and a girl like that didn't deserve the kind of mouth-breathing fixation she was being subjected to by the entire population of Johns Meredith…or maybe it was because they'd spent an hour talking about Guy Ritchie movies at Massie's pool party last Sunday.

Derrick always joked that Cam decided whether he liked a girl or not based on her taste in music and movies. After fifteen more minutes spent talking about The Killers, he had an inkling that she was the girl of his dreams.

So before they'd left on Sunday, he'd asked to borrow her iPod. She'd willingly swapped and taken his home and after a week of scrawling through her library he'd discovered playlists full of songs by his favorite bands, and cool new acts he'd never even heard of, and old-school songs from the 1960's and -70's and -80's that his dad loved.

It sure made a nice change from the usual saccharine pop confections that BALC girls listened to.

"Yo…earth to Cam?" Josh waved his hand in Cam's face. He was standing and shrugging on his maroon blazer, the pocket of which bore the Johns Meredith crest and the school's logo: _Docendo discimus; Ductus Exemplo._

_Learn by teaching; lead by example. _So far, Cam's efforts to lead by example as Head Prefect had been woefully under-appreciated by the student body. He stood.

He hadn't even heard the bell ring or noticed the students around him as they stood and began gathering their books and belongings; he'd just been that hung up in thoughts of Claire. Derrick stared at him, his dark brown eyes glittering – he knew exactly what Cam had been thinking about.

Or, he could imagine. Derrick probably thought Cam had been reliving memories of Claire stretching in her teeny-tiny bikini, or climbing out of Massie's hot tub later that evening, slick with warm water and glistening, her hair piled on top of her head.

It was, after all, what Derrick had been thinking about throughout the lesson.

"You still got her iPod?" Derrick asked, leading the way out of the room.

Cam followed, shoving books into his leather satchel. "Um, yeah. I was thinking I might give it back today," he said, shoving his hands through his messy brown-black hair. He cast his eyes – blue, like the sky on a perfect, unsullied day – downwards, towards his black sneakers. "She said she usually eats on the Bridging Quad with Kristen Gregory, so…"

"I'll come out there," Derrick said, shrugging.

In Westchester's most elite schools, there was a specific order to things.

During the colder months, Johns Meredith students ate in the contemporary glass-and-burnished-bronze cafeteria (designed to look like a giant conservatory) which shouldered the main building, hanging off its side. The warmer months saw them flock to the Great Quad and the Bridging Quad – the latter of which was shared with Blessed Alix Le Clercq – to expel some energy during their few breaks.

Things were a lot more political amongst their feminine counterparts. The cool girls sat on the Bridging Quad during fall and spring and at Tables 8, 12 and 13 and 21 (according to rank) in the school's neo-Romantic cafeteria during winter. Their dominion extended to the library during peak examination times – they had exclusive control over study tables 7, 5 and 8.

The _really _popular girls were the only students allowed to sit at the five tables that surrounded the coffee booth in the Main Hallway.

Derrick knew this because Massie Block had told him where to find her at any given time throughout the one-and-a-half years that they'd dated – and it was _always _amongst a swag of popular, cookie-cutter BALC students in one of those locales.

Cam hesitated, his steps slowing as they approached his locker. "Seriously?"

Since he'd broken-up with Massie in the beginning of the summer, Derrick had avoided Blessed Alix Le Clercq like it was condemned. "Why the sudden interest in BALC?"

Derrick shrugged. "I haven't had anyone fawn over me in a while. Why not?"

Cam and Derrick had been best friends since preschool – Cam knew he was lying, and Derrick knew that _Cam _knew he was lying. Neither particularly cared to discuss the topic any further, though, so Cam left it alone.

Claire was exactly where she said she'd be. She, Kristen and Layne Abeley were surrounded by a group of girls, their backs facing towards Johns Meredith.

Cam took a seat next to her and handed her iPod to her wordlessly.

"Oh!" she blushed, taken by surprise. "Hey!"

"Hey." He grinned at her toothily. She was just as pretty as he remembered – prettier, even. He hadn't seen her or spoken to her (asides from a quick message on Myspace to ask where he could find her at lunch) since Massie's party. He didn't want to seem excessively interested so he shuffled a few inches away from her and bent one knee, leaning on it casually.

Derrick took a seat beside Kristen and began picking at Tupperware container of strawberries she held tightly in her hands. Kristen – if she noticed – didn't mind. She smiled at Derrick beatifically and asked him about Johns Meredith's hockey try-outs, which Derrick had supervised that morning.

Claire nudged Cam with her shoulder. "Layne just told me a story about you," she whispered. Her face was serious, her almond eyes narrowed.

Cam's elation dissipated. "Really?"

There were a million-and-one stories that Layne could tell Claire: their families had been neighbors for years, and their elder brothers, Harris and Chris, were at Harvard together. There was, for example, the time that Cam (five years-old at the time) had proposed to Layne.

There was also the time, three weeks ago, when Layne had walked into Cam's bedroom to find Cam naked with his best friend's very _recent _ex-girlfriend – Massie.

"Mhm. Layne was just telling me about the first time you got drunk." Claire rolled her eyes at him. "Apparently _someone _can't hold their liquor."

Cam's shoulders dropped. He felt some of the tension ease out of his body; he could also feel Layne's bright green cat-eyes burning a hole into the side of his face. "Ah, of course…the family holiday to Vegas in late-2007."

"A lot of shit went down in 2007," Derrick said sadly, shaking his head.

Kristen laughed. "Yeah…I dated you."

"Derrick's dated everyone." Layne rolled her eyes. "Slut."

Derrick wasn't perturbed by the label – evidently, he liked it. "Derrick Harrington, Jr. _Slut._" He grinned. "Has a certain ring to it."

The P.A. system spluttered to life. "This is the school's anthem," Kristen intoned, as the first strains of _Gloria in Excelsis Deo _played. "And what you're about the hear is Alicia Rivera, reading the school's announcements."

**"Good morning, students. This is Alicia Rivera, with today's announcements."**

"You're hot!"

Cam rolled his eyes. "Josh Hotz," he explained to Claire above the scattered laughter; he pointed across the quad at the picnic blanket where Massie Block and Dylan Marvil sat, surrounded by Johns Meredith students. "He used to make the same joke back in 2007, and it wasn't much funnier then."

**"My first: after a successful year in sport, it was today announced that after a reconsideration of last year's rankings and game footage, the BALC Show Pony's did, in fact, come a close second to the Westchester Werewolves women's basketball team – ****_ouch_****. Better luck this year, ladies." **

Dylan Marvil pretended that she was watching Kristen, but her eyes were glued to Derrick – just as they always were when Derrick was in the room. At this point, the pretending was all for show: Massie _knew _Dylan had a crush on Derrick, and as long as she didn't act on it, Massie didn't particularly care.

_As long as she didn't act on it. _Dylan blushed, drawn to thinking of how good Derrick's hands had been on her body; how sweet his lips had tasted. Lately it seemed like she only had time to think about two things: the new macrobiotic diet she was trying to follow, and secretly making out with Derrick in one of the cabanas at Massie's pool party.

He caught her looking and waved.

She looked away.

**"In other news: a date has been set for this year's New Students Debut Ball. Some of you are going to have to hustle to get those custom-made dresses from Milan – it'll be next month, at Skylight West in NYC. Formal invitations will follow within two weeks. Debut Committee Chairwoman Massie Block says it's bound to be 'our best debut yet.'" **

"Debut?"

Kristen nodded in Massie's direction. "Massie's cousin, Ellery, started the tradition in 1995. Every year we hold a dance at the beginning of the year to welcome all of the school's new students."

"Black-tie; _unlimited_ open bar." Derrick smiled mischievously.

"The school lets you have an open bar?" Claire thought, incredulously, of Dr. Gregory condoning underage-drinking.

Cam cleared his throat. "It's not _strictly _school business. They don't provide funding and students can't dedicate class time to planning the event like they could if it were, say, the Winter Formal. So, if no-one breaks the law, it's, uh…kosher."

"There are six dances every year," Layne added. She scoffed, before beginning an eerily accurate imitation of Massie's voice. "One for each season, one to welcome the new students each year, and one at the year's end…obnoxious, am I right?"

Claire shrugged. "That could be…nice?"

Layne shook her head. "It's not. The first and last dances are hosted by the school's 'It' girl at the time – in this case, obviously Massie."

"The others are boring, staid, school-sanctioned affairs. Bad music, stale food, no beer." Derrick sighed. "Barely worth going to."

"But compulsory," Layne said. She rolled her eyes again. As she spoke, she noticed something over Claire's shoulder and squealed, jumping to her feet and tearing towards a figure standing by a vintage Mustang in the parking lot. Claire shielded her eyes from the sun and squinted, trying to make the figure out.

He was like any other Johns Meredith student – highlights, where his hair had caught the son; broad shoulders; requisite stubble growing on his chin. "Who's that?" Claire asked, watching Layne leap into his arms in a sweet, if somewhat over-the-top, display.

Kristen cleared her throat, hoping no-one would notice her sudden discomfort. "That's, um, Dempsey Solomon," she said. "He's Layne's boyfriend."

Her phone beeped. She picked it up and glanced at the screen, surprised to see a text from Massie. _It's been a while since that's happened, _she thought, staring at the small, pixelated envelope on the phone's screen. She opened it.

**So I take it Layne doesn't know about your semi-regular ****_rendez-vous_**** with her boyfriend. **

Kristen cheeks colored and her head snapped up. Massie, still seated on her tartan picnic blanket across the quad, was glad to see that Kristen had the decency to look aghast.

_So all the secrets in Skye's book _were _true, _she thought. By far the most unbelievable was the section about Kristen – the golden girl of Blessed Alix Le Clercq having _tête-à-têtes _with former teachers and twenty-five year-old townies…_and _her best friend's boyfriend?

Impossible, Massie had thought. But it turned out, Kristen wasn't such a good friend after all_. _

Massie rolled her eyes at her own naïvety. So Kristen was a backstabber, just like everyone else she'd ever known – so what?

_Commence Operation Little Black Book, Phase 1. _

Now that she knew the secrets weren't fabrications, Massie was going to stop at nothing to get Skye's leather-bound dossier back – and the first step was to find out who stole it.

_How? _Massie had played enough Clue in her life to know the drill: eliminate every suspect, one-by-one. Kristen had stopped by Massie's pool party hours after it had begun last Sunday, citing last-minute Prefecture business.

_Doubtful, _Massie thought, rolling her eyes. _If there _was_ last minute business, I'd know about it. _Knowing what she knew now, it was far more likely that Kristen had just been screwing around with her bestie's boyfie and lost track of time.

_But what if she'd shown up for a reason? _Skye and Kristen had been close – ten times closer than Massie had ever been with either. So what if Kristen was in on the Little Black Book and had stolen it back?

**Meet me in the treehouse. 10:15 tonight, **she texted. **Don't breathe a word of this to anyone. **

* * *

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	7. Chapter 6

Backyard Tree House

The Gregory Residence

Monday 13 September, 2009

10:10 P.M.

* * *

Kristen brushed silky, golden hair away from her face and hugged her vintage, canary-yellow Oroton angora sweater tighter around her shoulders. This tree house had been her sanctuary for sixteen years, and it was about to be ruined by Massie Block's mere presence.

The best of her memories were set here, in this crumbling structure: her first kiss (Derrick Harrington); her first sleepover with Massie, Alicia, Dylan and Layne; losing her virginity to her Freshman English teacher, James Mathison, while her parents slept peacefully inside the Tudor-style mansion visible from the roughly-hewn window…

Considering everything that had happened afterwards – like, for example, Mr. Mathison losing his job at Blessed Alix Le Clercq, being forced to relocate to the West Coast and coming uncomfortably close to losing his teaching license – Kristen felt pretty guilty about that last event. She'd been the one who'd kindled a relationship with him, after all – even if she _had _been fifteen at the time. No matter how many times her mother insisted that it wasn't her fault – that the man was lecherous and incorrigible – Kristen _knew: _her conniving, calculated seduction; her fault.

She looked around at the posters on the walls: Eminem, The Spice Girls, and Hanson stared back at her blankly. It was a catalogue of artists she'd loved throughout the years canvassing the wooden planks that made up the treehouse's walls, and every poster – no matter how embarrassing – had been left on the walls to brown and tear since the day it had been posted. She ripped down a few of the most mortifying and hid them under the seat cushions of the apple-green velvet couch.

Predictably, Massie was twenty minutes late. At 10:35 she climbed into the tree house via the hanging ladder, her hazel eyes grazing the posters that had remained untouched. "Wouldn't have picked you for a big Backstreet Boys fan," she told Kristen, smirking.

"I was, once." Kristen shrugged. "People change."

_Like you. _

Once, Kristen and Massie had considered themselves best friends. They'd sat together at lunch and had sleepovers at Kristen's house on weekends, where they'd watched chick flicks (occasionally, horror movies) and talked about the Johns Meredith boys they wanted to go on dates with.

As they'd grown older, their clique had expanded and they'd begun to discover that they wanted different things than they once had. Massie, who'd only ever wanted people to like her, had discovered that she wanted people to fear her instead.

Kristen discovered that she just wanted to get out of Westchester and go somewhere _different, _where your worth meant 'your contribution to human society,' and not its literal translation: how much are you worth?

Massie nodded. "I know, right?"

They faced each other awkwardly. What little moonlight shone into the dark treehouse was drawn to the sparkle of Massie's silver Tiffany charm bracelet. Kristen wondered if she still wore the 'Best Friends' charm she'd gifted her on her tenth birthday.

_Doubt it. _Kristen had taken hers off at the beginning of the summer.

"You look so out of place," Kristen said, without really thinking. She drew her hand to her mouth and bit at a hangnail on her thumb.

Massie nodded, her hazel eyes narrowing imperceptibly. "Yeah…I feel pretty out of place."

_Well, the treehouse dress-code doesn't usually incorporate Chanel, _Kristen thought, smirking. Massie hadn't been up here in almost ten years, though – how would she know that? She tugged at her sweater again but looked Massie dead in the eye. She was glad that Massie – her brunette counterpart; her archetype – was, as per usual, ridiculously over-dressed: it gave her something to focus on, other than the fact that Massie Block, bitch incarnate, knew her deepest, darkest secret.

_Or, one of them. _

"Who told you?" she blurted out coldly, her stare unwavering. _Probably Dempsey, _she thought. Kristen swallowed a foul taste as she thought of the two of them, alone together. Dempsey couldn't keep his dick in his pants, or his mouth shut. Kristen was constantly surprised that they'd managed a full year of secret debauchery without him spilling the beans to one of the several other girls he saw behind Layne's back.

"No-one, really…" Massie said. When Massie broke eye contact, Kristen felt like a winner; Massie inspected her cuticles with a look of clear disdain. "My discovery was a complete accident."

"So you saw us somewhere?"

Kristen felt like kicking a wall, or throwing a vase – some bullshit, cliché, irrational behavior typically attributed to throwing a tantrum. She'd never really done stupid shit like that before (_why bother?_) but as the saying went: 'If not now, then when?'

She'd _thought _that they'd been careful; conscientious. For every hushed meeting in a corner or a car park or a closet, there'd been an alibi, a distraction, and a carefully-constructed series of elaborate lies to divert attention and conceal the truth. Dempsey wasn't subtle about his complete and utter lack of faithfulness and he was even less levelheaded when it came to getting what he wanted, _when _he wanted it, but Kristen had everything to lose. She'd set an ultimatum from the beginning: he played by her rules, or not at all.

Kristen didn't even feel guilt anymore while she lied to Layne and their mutual friends about where she'd been or with whom – she only ever felt it afterwards when she was alone (in her car; in the shower; in her bed) and then, she let the gravity of all the terrible, awful things she'd done overwhelm her.

Sometimes, she cried about it. But she still kept doing all the same, stupid things that left her crying alone in her bed at the end of the day.

Massie shook her head, ponytail bouncing around her fox face enthusiastically. "Don't play dumb, Keeks. It doesn't suit you. You know it, I know it – the only person who _doesn't _know it is poor Mr. Mathison. After-school tutoring, K? _Lame _scheme – but clearly effective. Kudos for that, I guess…"

Kristen stopped breathing.

She had never – _ever _– told anyone about her relationship with Mr. Mathison. It had been her bargain with her mother: if she kept her mouth shut, he wouldn't face any criminal charges; he'd be shipped off to a respectable boarding school, exiled from Westchester and given a second chance at doing something with the life that Kristen had done _such _a good job of ruining.

_Because of my wrongdoings, _she reminded herself. Her mother's summary of the situation sprung to mind, and it was apt – The Gregory's had been too lenient on Kristen in her youth, and she delighted in crossing boundaries. Like the boundaries between teacher and student…or best friend and boyfriend.

She had never told anyone about her relationship with Mr. Mathison – who she'd called Mr. Mathison even as he'd fucked her, just because it had felt so _thrilling –_ but she'dhinted.

Kristen cleared her throat. There was a lump swelling there, constricting the tight bands of muscle and making it hard to swallow; she could feel hot tears threatening to spill over the rims of her tired eyes. She tried to blink them back. "Did Skye…?"

_I'm an idiot. _

Kristen had wanted, so desperately, for Skye to like her. _But hadn't everyone wanted Skye to like them? _She'd tried, so hard, to impress Skye; told her almost everything she knew about anyone and everyone; and she'd come so, _so _close to telling her about her relationship with a teacher who'd left the school, never to return. Skye had found the story _très _romantic and incredibly hot, and Kristen had felt like she'd won a battle.

_Skye didn't know him; he was before her time – she would never put it together, _she'd reasoned. But Massie had been there every step of the way, always suspicious about _something _but not quite sure where to look. She had a map; Skye had given her a compass.

Kristen won a battle but, in the end, Massie almost always won the war.

"She didn't _tell _me, if that's what's got you hyperventilating." Massie rolled her eyes. "And I'm not going to tell, either – _if _you co-operate."

"What do you want?" _Blackmail…of course. She's probably going to ask me to resign as Head Prefect so she can give herself a second chance at election. _

What _did _Massie want? She closed her eyes for a second, trying to remember. In her head, she could see herself carefully measuring a cup of almonds; bowls of berries; pastel-colored pills she'd bought from Wilhelmina van der Vorst (a chubby girl in the grade below her whose brother was a college drop-out and Westchester's second most reliable drug dealer).

Massie wanted what she _always _wanted; the thing she'd wanted most since she was old enough to realize that her father hadn't been faithful to her mother for a single week in their troubled marriage: control_. _

People who did things by the numbers were never surprised, or scared – results came with guarantees if you followed the procedure. "Give me my book."

_What…? _

Kristen blinked. _A book? _Massie was threatening to ruin her life over a _book_? She racked her memory, trying to recall a book she'd borrowed from Massie and never returned. "_Black Beauty_?" she asked. Massie had accidentally left the book behind after an Algebra class last year – Kristen had picked it up with the intent of returning it, but never had. It was still somewhere in her room.

Massie grimaced. "No, you idiot. The little black book."

Kristen raised an eyebrow. "Uh…"

"Skye's book?"

Skye and Kristen hadn't been the book-exchanging type of friends, exactly. Kristen actually couldn't remember seeing Skye touch a book that wasn't required reading for a class.

"Yeah…no. Still not ringing any bells."

Massie put her hands on her hips, pushed out her chest and raised herself to her full height. Her voice dropped to little more than a venomous hiss. "The book you stole from my _bedroom _on Sunday, you ignorant little shit!"

Kristen couldn't help but laugh – a little scream of a laugh that saw her gulping in a mouthful of the crisp, cool Fall air. "You're actually fucking insane, Mass – I literally have no idea what you're talking about."

"You came to my party on Sunday to steal the book back." Massie stepped forward and pushed Kristen's shoulder with both hands. "You're working with her!"

Kristen stumbled backwards. Her mouth dropped open. In their lifetime of friendship, Massie had only ever pushed Kristen once, and Kristen had made her regret it. She was about to make her regret it again. "I came to your house because I was _invited!_" she growled, pushing Massie back. She pushed so hard that Massie landed against the wall with a thump, panting; her hazel eyes glittered with rage."And I'm not working with, _or against, _anyone – least of all you, you paranoid fucking creep!"

They stood, staring at each other.

"You don't know what I'm talking about." Massie dropped her head, defeated. Her anger seeped out of her. One of her friends had betrayed her and, for some strange reason, she'd hoped it was Kristen who had; convinced herself so readily that she'd come to believe it as if it were reality.

Seeing Kristen happy was a constant source of hurt and confusion for Massie. She wanted to be happy for her, too; delighted by all her success and buoyed by her good cheer. Instead, it just made her feel…insufficient. For thirteen years, she'd assumed that she would be the school's Head Prefect. She met all the criteria: pretty, accomplished, charismatic.

The student body had chosen Kristen instead – her best friend, and not her. Saying she was proud of Kristen for having something she'd wanted so bad was like a knife in the gut; saying she wasn't jealous was like a hot iron brand to the chest.

It didn't help much that she'd _not only _been bested by Kristen, but by Skye fucking Hamilton. In a matter of months, Skye – blonde bombshell Skye and her sidekick, one-of-the-guys Kristen – had eclipsed sixteen years of boring-control-freak Massie's hard-earned achievements and best-laid plans with a vivacious personality and a penchant for wildness; it was sickening. Surely there were only _so many _tables a girl could dance on before the routine got stale – but if there were, Skye had pushed for the limit and never hit it.

So, yeah…Massie's life would have been easier without Kristen in it; it was definitely easier with Skye gone.

Or it was, until she'd lost the book.

_No, _she told herself viciously. _You didn't lose the book. It was stolen _from _you. _

"I'd like to know," Kristen said earnestly, watching Massie's energy deflate. Immediately, she wished that Angry Massie would come back again. The return of Sad Massie – a familiar sight – made her hurt all over; the kind of exhaustive hurt that she felt after a particularly hard-won, rough-and-tumble hockey match.

A tear spilt down Massie's cheek. "When Skye left last year, I found a book that she'd been hiding…"

_You're crying because you found a book that Skye left behind? _Skye had enjoyed the attention of some pretty devout fans, but Kristen wasn't sure she'd heard of any of them coveting her shit. _Lesbian, much?_

But maybe, like Kristen, Massie was hurt that Skye had never said goodbye – maybe she felt betrayed and abandoned and like half a person. Skye and Kristen had always been close, but Kristen had watched Massie and Skye with a sense of envy like she'd never felt before. She had been close to Skye; Massie had been closer. She rolled her shoulders back and crossed the small floor space to stand at Massie's side, pulling her onto the well-worn couch and slipping her arm around her thin, jagged shoulders. "Um…were you – I mean, I didn't realize that you felt so hurt by how she left – "

"I didn't, you fucking loser." Massie swiped at her face with the back of her hand. "The book was full of secrets about everyone in Westchester."

"You…huh?"

"Secrets! Hence, I knew about you and Dempsey, and Mr. Mathison, and just about every other inappropriate sexual partner the mind could conjure up…Jesus Christ, K, you have some unresolved issues – "

"Look who's fucking talking," Kristen snapped.

Massie narrowed her eyes, looking at Kristen with an expression of pure, unadulterated spite. "My issues will be resolved when I have the book back, but _thanks _for the input."

"How many people are in there?"

"_Everyone_," Massie emphasized.

When Alicia had found the book, she'd told Massie that it had only contained information about a select few of Westchester's male inhabitants; in her typical fashion, Alicia was wrong. Massie had discovered the secrets of scores of Johns Meredith students hidden in the books pages – as well as the secrets of teachers, parents and faculty.

Kristen's mouth fell open as Massie described the book. "And it's been stolen?"

"I don't know who stole it, and I don't know when," Massie said bitterly, looking at her Isabel Marant boots, "but when I find them, they're going to wish they never had."

_Optimistic at the best of times. _Kristen sighed. Massie thought she was indestructible; always one step ahead of everybody else. She had even in preschool, when she'd merrily jumped from a climbing frame and broken her ankle trying to prove that she could best everyone else – be the bravest, be the coolest, be the strongest. "What makes you think you're going to find it, M?"

Massie smirked; her usual shit-eating grin. "Because…you're going to help me."

_From tears to schemes in fifteen seconds flat. _Massie couldn't help it – the grin grew bigger. _I should have my own TV show._

* * *

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	8. Chapter 7

Dylan's Bedroom

The Marvil Compound

Thursday 16 September, 2009

7:32 P.M.

* * *

"You are so beautiful."

Dylan felt a blush rising to her cheeks but for once she wasn't blushing out of embarrassment; her pink cheeks were prompted by pure, wanton satisfaction. She practically purred as she curled herself tighter against Derrick's chest. "You're a liar," she whispered. Her voice was hoarse.

She clasped her hands behind her back, pushing out her chest, as Derrick curled a finger around the waistband of her 7 For All Mankind jeans. He ran it along the tight denim, still curled, from one hipbone to the other.

Nobody made her feel like Derrick made her feel: excited, sultry, nervous. And then…anxious, too.

Anxious, that Massie would find out what she was doing with Derrick behind her back; have her destroyed, like she'd had so many other girls destroyed before – and for much less serious offenses than fraternizing with the enemy. (Particularly as Massie was still head over heels in love with _this _enemy.)

Anxious, that Massie would find a way to steal him back if she knew, or that he'd realized that he'd always wanted Massie more – that Dylan paled in comparison. Anxious, that there was an irreconcilable discrepancy between what she felt for him, and what he felt for her.

Derrick placed a trail of kisses on Dylan's hipbone. "Did you really text Massie?" she asked. "Did you tell her that you miss her?"

"I plead the Fifth on that one." He undid the rose-gold button of her jeans; unzipped the fly, exposing a pair of lavender lace La Perla panties. They were the kind of underwear Dylan only wore if she was certain that someone would be seeing them – uncomfortable, ludicrously expensive and downright sexy. "But, yes…" he said. "I did."

She could only see the top of his perfect golden head. _Don't you even get how much that hurts?_ For two years, she'd been forced to look and never touch; spent nights laying awake in her cold, empty, California king-size bed and imagining how and where she would touch him – if she could.

During Derrick's relationship with Massie, he and Dylan had become close and he had shared everything with her – his confusion; his frustration; his dissatisfaction. Every problem he'd shared had convinced Dylan, more and more so, that he didn't belong with Massie.

He belonged with her. And every tormented look that crossed Derrick's face during his time with Massie had been an opportunity for Dylan to convince him of that – a goal in which she'd ultimately succeeded.

Now, she could touch him…but he was dreaming about someone else. He didn't belong to Massie (and now he knew it), but he was doing his _best_ to make it clear that he didn't want to belong to _anyone._

Not even Dylan.

She curled her fist in his hair and pulled it; pulled his face upwards so she could look into his brown eyes. They were the color of dark chocolate Godiva truffles – her favorite. _God. I think I love him. _"Do you miss her?" she asked. She realized that the answer wasn't likely the one she wanted to hear.

Derrick looked into her eyes as he pulled her jeans down. "Can you miss something you never had?" He begun to place butterfly-light kisses on the tops of her thighs.

Dylan took a step backwards.

This year was supposed to be the best year of her life: she could finally fit into the skinny jeans she could only wear at 95 pounds, which meant – naturally – that she had _finally _reached her 95 pound goal-weight. The jeans were the only true indication she had at this point: Merri-Lee Marvil had banned scales from their home after a 2006 special-episode of _The Daily Grind_ had revealed "America's unhealthy obsession with self-weighing."

Over the summer she'd lost her virginity to the love of her life, and it though the experience – angry, groping rebound-sex in the backseat of her Escalade (parked in the garage at the Block estate) – hadn't been the sweet, sensuous bonding of souls that she'd imagined it would be, it had still been sex with Derrick Harrington, followed by cuddling and chaste kisses trailed across her forehead.

Merri-Lee was finally listening to Dylan's near-constant insistences that she didn't want to attend her mother's _alma_ _mater_, USC; that there might be other schools (better schools, better suited to Dylan's dreams, goals and desires). Things were good.

Except, they weren't.

Running around, hiding her relationship made her feel like shit. She wanted to tell everyone that she and Derrick were a _thing, _whatever that meant, but she had to tip-toe, muttering lies about why she couldn't go to Massie's on any given afternoon.

_If only that were the limit of my problems though, _she chastised herself. She looked around the room – her bedroom – trying to gather her thoughts.

The skinny jeans she'd halved her diet for didn't make her ass look as good as she remembered, and Derrick said she was getting "too skinny." What was the point of losing ten pounds if distanced her further from the things that she wanted – like, for example, _him?_

And if her grades continued to be as mediocre as they were, she'd be lucky to get into any one of her top ten colleges. Even with her letter of reference from Barack Obama.

She grabbed the belt loops of her 7s and pulled them up. "Do you still text Skye?" she asked. She couldn't help the vicious edge that crept into her voice.

Johns Meredith and BALC students alike had nicknamed Derrick 'Slut' earlier in the week, and the nickname had stuck. It was apt: there were few girls amongst BALC's upper echelons of privileged girls who'd avoided Derrick's charms.

Dylan wondered if Massie got jealous as often, or as much, as she did.

Derrick's head dropped. He stared at his Nike's. _The hotter the girl, the bigger the complexes. _His desire had been waning but with five little words, Dylan had managed to kill it altogether. And what was he supposed to say?

Sure, he still texted Skye. He'd texted her every day since she'd left – tried calling more times than he cared to admit, even to himself – and she hadn't answered once.

Compartmentalization worked well to help Derrick balance lacrosse, track, soccer and rowing with school, leadership responsibilities and his family – but it hadn't done him many favors when it came to his romantic relationships. If anything, attempting to compartmentalize the things he felt for the girls he'd dated had him more confused than ever.

He'd spent hours mentally compiling pro-and-con lists about them all, trying to decide what he wanted; and it was hard to accept that the heart wanted only what it wanted and nothing more, when he was used to having answers, reasons, logic and plans dictate his choices.

He liked Dylan's innocence; her sweetness.

She was the only girl he'd ever been with who'd inspired a protective drive within him, and when he heard her come up in Johns Meredith's locker rooms – in _any_ context – he often curled his fingers into fists before he ever realized what he was doing.

He'd enjoyed Kristen's smart mouth; the conversations they'd shared; her sense of humor. But knowing that she was smarter than him…well, he was ashamed to admit it, but it had plagued him somehow.

For years, he'd loved Massie's feistiness and her determination.

_She'd _been the one who'd spotted him, at a party over the summer between Eighth and Nineth Grade, and _she'd _been the one to doggedly pursue him – just like she went after everything elseshe wanted. Unfortunately, he hadn't loved feeling like he was another accomplishment in a long list.

And then there was Skye…he'd loved that she was out-of-reach; now she was gone.

And she hadn't ever bothered to tell him she was leaving.

"I haven't spoken to Skye since the last day of school…" he told Dylan diplomatically. It wasn't a lie, technically – she hadn't ever replied, so how did he know she'd ever received the longwinded, desperate, cringe-inducing texts he'd sent her? "Why bother? There's nothing to say."

Dylan smiled. "You're right," she said, sighing happily. She straddled Derrick's lap and buried her face in his neck. "You're so right. I'm sorry – I'm crazy; really silly. But the thought of you with her – with anyone else – "

"Don't."

"Everything's been weird this week. That new girl – " she blew air upwards, into her long, side-swept bangs. She'd had them cut recently, and she wasn't acclimatizing to them very well at all. _" – _has everyone going _crazy…_"

"Claire?"

Dylan frowned. What she had to say on the topic wasn't going to be well-received, but it _did _have to be said. She fixed her eyes on the Colorado Gray walls."I don't like it when you sit with them on the Quad. I feel like you're trying to torture me."

For weeks, Claire fucking Lyons had been the be-all-and-end-all of Westchester's gossip-soaked conversations. Dylan couldn't walk down a hallway without hearing her name – usually in conjunction with others, like Cam Fisher and Kristen Gregory and Derrick _fucking _Harrington.

"Cam's digging her. He wants to hang out with her."

"So you have to?" Dylan rolled her eyes. Derrick had pushed her Missoni knit upwards to expose her belly, so she pulled it down – her belly was gross, and he didn't deserve to see it, anyway. "I'm sure it's a real _chore._"

She could feel tension radiating off of Derrick. He didn't like it when she was jealous, which she knew unequivocally, but she couldn't help herself: she didn't want him hanging around with Claire, and precedent dictated that nagging was the only foolproof way to make Derrick do what you wanted him to do.

"In case you haven't noticed," he said, "I don't have many options – you don't want Massie to know we're together and I don't want anyone to be suspicious about the fact that I'm sitting alone in the fucking library to eat my lunch."

"The fact that I don't want Massie to knowabout us does _not _mean that you have to avoid her." Dylan pursed her lips; crossed her arms; and sat back on Derrick's lap, staring into his eyes. "Are you sure it's not _Cam_ trying to play hide-and-seek with M?"

Derrick froze. "Um…what?"

"Cam…?" she raised her eyebrow conspiratorially. "Because of…_you know_…him and Massie?"

Evidently, Derrick didn't know. Dylan's stomach dropped as she watched his eyes grow steely. _Oh my God, I'm an idiot…an idiot who's responsible for a very big, very unavoidable shit-storm. _"He's screwing Massie," she managed to squeak out, between shallow breaths.

"That's a lie."

She shook her head. Her long, red curls fanned out, then settled around her shoulders. "No."

"Cam has been my best friend since _kindergarten. _He would never do that to me."

Dylan felt a little stab of jealousy. "Why do you care?" she hissed. "It's not like you're dating her anymore – you said you don't even miss her. And _clearly,_ she's over you."

He nudged her away and stood up, gathering his things: textbooks, pens, calculators. He'd come here under the pretense of working on a two-person project for their Biology class that had seen them fatefully assigned as partners; unfortunately, a lot of other pretenses had just been shattered. He didn't feel like working, and he _didn't _want company. "Since when?"

Dylan crossed her shoulders over her chest, watching him deftly assemble the belongings – and clothes – that had been scattered around the room. She could feel tears welling up in her eyes. "About a month after you two broke up."

_Typical. Big Mouth Dylan ruins everything good with her usual lack of discretion. _Suddenly, Dylan felt like launching something very expensive at a wall – very, very fast and very, very hard.

It had only been four hours since Derrick had seen Cam last. He'd dropped him off at his house in Scarsdale; not once had he considered the idea that Cam was probably going to leave in the dead of the night, make his way to Massie's house and fuck her.

Did they stay up afterwards, holding each other? Did either one ever stop to think of him and feel a cold chill run up their spine? Were they even decent enough to feel _guilty _about it?

Did Cam prefer Massie or Claire?

Dylan stammered as she followed him around the room, from desk to bed and back again. "You said – "

"It's not _about _Massie," Derrick hissed, and that offered Dylan some relief. "It's about the fact that they've both been _lying to me _and making me look like a fucking idiot! Who else knows?"

"I – Alicia. She probably told Josh, too."

_Fucking incredible. _Derrick shook his head; slung his backpack over his shoulder. "And here I am, looking like a piece of _shit, _because I'm too stupid to realize that my best friend's fucking her, and I believed all of her 'I still want to be with you; I miss you' bullshit." Dylan cowered as he looked at her. "You should have told me, Dylan."

_Better late than never. _She didn't want to gloat, but a part of her was proud. If he'd had any feelings at all left for Massie, they'd just been slashed and burnt – no more 'I miss you' texts, no more quiet moments where he avoided eye contact with her because some unnamed thing or place reminded him of her, and no more pretending.

She wasn't proud of the way it had happened, but everything had finally fallen into place in her life. Once he'd had his mourning period, they could go public. Why would she need Massie's friendship if she was finally certain had Derrick (the one thing she'd wanted most since she was old enough to know boys weren't gross, cooties-carrying creeps)?

_All mine. No more worry that he'll ditch me if she promises him a second chance; no fear, no embarrassment, no qualms. _She'd never done a 'happy dance' before, but in the moment, she felt like it.

Her elation was short-lived.

Derrick crossed to the door and waited until his hand was on the doorknob to speak. He didn't make eye contact with her, and his voice didn't waver – not once. "I don't ever want to speak to you again, Dylan. You're as bad as they are…worse, maybe. They obviously don't feel anything for me but contempt; two days ago, you told me that you loved me. Was that a lie, too?"

_So he did hear me. _She hadn't been sure – she'd waited until she'd thought he'd been asleep to say it. A stark realization hit Dylan: Derrick thought she'd withheld from telling him about Cam and Massie for selfish reasons.

_It wasn't my business to say anything – why would I? And if Derrick had heard me…why didn't he say anything back?_

She held her breath – her mother's in-house physiologist always said that a deep breath, held for five seconds, could make any situation feel less dire. But losing what she'd wanted most for years, when it was finally in reach? Apparently, that was the only exception to the rule. She let the breath out in a gust and crossed her fingers behind her back. "But, I – I didn't – "

"Do you think you can do me one small favor?" "

_A favor? _Dylan practically cried tears of relief, suddenly faced with a chance to salvage the situation – maybe breath-holding _was _effective, after all? The run-on effects of favors granted were immeasurable in the world that they inhabited: in Westchester, entire relationships were built off of favors owed and repaid.

Doing one for Derrick might help alleviate some of the disgust lacing his voice – _thank God, because she couldn't remember a time she'd felt worse in her life, except maybe when she'd overheard a Vanity Fair stylist talking about how heavy and awkwardly-shaped she was during a tw0-day photo shoot – _and shorten the time he'd inevitably spend being mad at her (before he finally forgave her and realized how much he was overreacting; how much he missed her and wanted her back).

Dylan's mother said she lived in a dream world, and maybe she was right. Nothing bad had ever really touched her; the worst of her problems was being wait-listed for the latest Gucci bag. Maybe that was why she was so naïve. "Sure – "

"Don't tell either of them that I know. It's not actually lying, just omission of truth, so it should be right up your alley."

* * *

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Should it go back to an M rating?

As always:

Questions are welcomed.


	9. Chapter 8

Hi, lovely readers!  
I'm sorry it took me so long to post this  
chapter but there's a reason: I have been building  
a dedicated page for this story (and it's been _slow-going!_).  
Please visit **littleblackbookfiction dot tumblr dot ****com****. **  
to read bonus chapters, re-edited/re-worked chapters,  
character biographies, playlists, and see pictures of  
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xo, Lollywater

* * *

Student Car Park #1901

The School of Blessed Alix Le Clercq

Friday 17 September, 2009

7:55 A.M.

* * *

Students were milling around the car park; a sea of navy blazers and expensive haircuts adorned by British silk headbands encrusted with precious gems. Some girls stomped from one luxury car to another, toting textbooks in thousand-dollar It bags, while others were drifting towards the school's main building in drips and drabs. Their heels click-clacked against the asphalt as they walked – to Claire, it sounded like an army on horseback.

She'd been sitting in the same place for almost fifteen minutes, staring at the logo in the middle of the car's steering wheel.

She still couldn't believe the conversation he'd had with her this morning, in the sunny kitchen of their rambling Prairie-style Frank Lloyd Wright home – in his gravelly voice he'd informed her that he didn't use it anymore, since William Block had given him a sleek, shiny, bullet-proof Mercedes SUV.

So, she guessed it was kind of _hers _now, which was exciting – but that wasn't why she'd been sitting in the car, accompanied only by the low strains of a mix CD Skye had made her.

Honestly, she didn't want to move.

It wasn't that her days at BALC were some torturous experience: things were going…okay. Things _weren't_ going great, though – and maybe that was it. She found herself ahead of the class in some of her subjects and hopelessly behind in others; every time she felt like she was settling in with her new friends – Kristen, Layne, Cam, Derrick – they'd go cold on her for no apparent reason.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd been so confused, or distracted from what she wanted. And in this case, what she wanted was some _normalcy _in her life.

_Maybe Westchester wasn't the place to come to if I wanted 'normalcy,' _she thought, watching Alicia Rivera pull her fire-engine red Maserati into a reserved car park. Alicia climbed gracefully from the car, flipping her black hair over her shoulder; her school blazer was draped around her shoulders like a cape.

Claire thought of the black, leather-bound diary she'd stolen from Massie. She felt kind of bad about sneaking around; she hated lying (and liars) more than anything. But Massie wasn't a nice person, and she didn't deserve _anyone's _sympathy. Least of all Claire's.

In addition to that, Claire had only stolen something _back_ – something that shouldn't have been stolen in the first place.

_Why would you even steal someone's diary? _Claire rolled her eyes, even though there was no-one there to see it. _What is this? Soviet Russia…? Is Massie policing people's thoughts now, or what? _She scoffed out loud at the thought.

The diary was still bundled up in a leather jacket on the floor of her closet: she didn't like to touch it, she avoided looking at it, and she couldn't understand why. It was just a diary, like any other diary – private, maybe, but not some thing of evil. And as she thought of it, she realized that she hadn't even told Skye she had it yet.

She checked her phone – according to her World Clock, it would be 7:55 P.M. in Hong Kong.

Skye didn't answer immediately; the phone rung for so long that Claire had almost given up when she heard the call click through, followed by Skye's warm, chirpy voice. "_Hey_, Claire-bear! How's it kickin'?"

"Is this a bad time?"

Claire couldn't help it – she was grinning from ear to ear. Amongst the madness of pageantry and public life, and her dad's consistent work-related absences, were a few constants in her life that could always make her smile: her mother; her older brother; and her best friend, Skye.

Skye giggled. "For you, babe? _No way!_ I'm just eating dinner with Mom and Dad; Daddy was telling us about his awful new P.A., Lily – apparently, she's managed to fuck up in every way imaginable in the space of, like, two weeks."

"Ew." Claire wrinkled her nose.

"How's Westchester? Try to avoid descriptions like 'hellish' and 'disassociated from the real world,' _please_. And the more dirt, the better."

_God, it's nice to hear a joke. _Claire couldn't remember the last time someone around here had said something funny. "Actually, it's, uh…it's not that bad." Claire glanced around the campus and noted Layne and Dempsey, pressed against one of the main building's stone exterior walls and making out –vigorously, enthusiastically, and in an overwhelmingly gross display. "Asides from the obvious."

"Oh, sure. How _is _Massie?"

"Distant." She grimaced. "I mean, she's always polite when she sees me, but…I think she's trying to avoid me. Which is fine, because I'm trying to avoid her."

Skye tutted; Claire could picture her, pursing her lips and shaking her head. "So, naturally, Massie feels threatened by you."

"I never said that."

"No, you didn't. _I _did."

"Whatever." Claire took a deep breath and checked that none of the cars around her were occupied – they weren't. "Hey, um…good news: I got your diary back."

A high-pitched squeal made Claire jump in her seat. She held the phone at a distance and waited, bemused, while Skye screamed excitedly. _I miss my best friend, _she thought; she pressed her head against the seat's head-rest – hard. "_Seriously? _Already? Oh my God, I knew you were good at sneaky shit like that, but I didn't know you were _that _good!"

_What the fuck is that supposed to mean? _Claire's brow furrowed.

She _wasn't _sneaky. Or at least, she hadn't been since 2005, when she'd accidentally-on-purpose caused a girl – Amanda Wakeley, 13, and Claire's fiercest competition (though Amanda had never realized it) – to trip down a set of stairs during an especially important pageant.

It was the first time she'd ever done something so selfish and evil, and she was still plagued by memories of seeing Amanda carried out of the auditorium in her father's arms.

Amanda's nose had been broken and her anterior cruciate ligament torn; she never competed in pageants – or all-star cheerleading, her other great passion – again. Worse, her parent's didn't have health insurance at the time. Paying for Amanda's rehabilitation _alone _would have bankrupted them.

Claire had felt so guilty, she had donated the twenty-thousand dollars of prize money she'd wrongfully won to help pay for Amanda's medical bills, to make some form of amends.

The media had run rampant with their 'gracious winner, full of the spirit of good sportsmanship' bullshit; and the Wakeley's (including Amanda) had never suspected her of a thing…excluding saintliness.

"Yeah, well…"

"Okay, so, I'm going to text you my address – how soon can you send it to me? Let me know what the shipping cost is and I'll send you – "

_Tap, tap, tap. _Claire bolted upright and looked to her right; Derrick Harrington was smiling down at her, his shirt unbuttoned and tie loosened before the day had even begun. "I gotta go," she hissed. She hung up and threw the phone onto the passenger seat; rolled the window down. "Hey, D."

"Miss Lyons – you're looking beautiful today."

She smiled weakly. "Thanks, Derrick. You're looking…um, messier than usual."

"Well, you know what they say…presentation is everything." He turned to watch a girl in four-inch heels wobble across the manicured lawn. "Especially around these parts."

"Huh. It must be such a blight on your day to sit inside a classroom and learn lessons that cost your parents thirty-thousand dollars a year, plus."

Claire gathered her textbooks and shoved them into her Claire Vivier tote; the latest from the La Tropezienne collection, and a gift from her grandmother. With all the gifts her grandmother had given her lately – Dior perfumes, Jimmy Choo shoes, expensive clothes – she almost looked like she belonged amongst Westchester's privileged elite.

_Almost_. She snatched up her phone and hoped Derrick wouldn't notice that her hands were shaking.

"We all have our demons. Unfortunately, this campus is full of mine." He smirked as Massie's black Range Rover screeched to a stop in the neighboring space. Their eyes met – her expression irate as she tore her gaze away and watched Claire climb out of her car, Derrick leaning against the driver's-side door – and in an instant, he knew he'd already won.

Fucking Alicia wouldn't stir any emotions in Massie; at this point, Alicia had fucked everyone Massie cared about but her dad and still maintained a coveted spot in Massie's circle. If Massie's weapons of choice were fear and exclusion, Alicia's were sex and secrecy; used often, and always with a self-absorbed end goal in mind.

Fucking Kristen…well, she wouldn't be interested, and she didn't subscribe to Massie's games anymore. Why get her involved in a world she'd escaped from, just because he couldn't follow suit?

And he was already fucking Dylan – _already had, _he thought, remembering the conversation they'd had last night – but he wasn't incensed enough by her manipulation and lies (and willingness to let him look like a total dick) to ruin her life by letting Massie rip her to shreds publicly and mercilessly.

So, he couldn't make the punishment fit the crime by taking Massie's best friend away from her. But he could let her anger and misery tear her up inside by fucking her enemy – and really, that was the best possible course. _No-one _could make Massie Block feel worse than Massie Block, herself.

"Speaking of." He turned on his most charming smile and watched Claire shrink back against her car, her blue eyes a little wider than usual; they were the exact color of the ice-blue diamond in his mother's million-dollar engagement ring. "I wanted to know what color you're wearing to the Debut."

Her perfect, glossy mouth straightened into a line. Subtly as he could, Derrick moved closer, and watched Massie fidget from the corner of his eye. And the closer he moved, the more he was distracted by how good she smelt – like laundry detergent and sea salt, mixed with a luxurious Jo Malone perfume he recognized from Kristen's arsenal.

"What color I'm wearing…?" Claire raised a single eyebrow.

_Bedding Claire Lyons is going to be the best scheme I've ever been involved in, _he thought to himself, as he smiled down at her and watched her squirm deliciously.

"Or your favorite flower…either works. I'm ordering my _boutonnière_ and I'd just like to make sure that it's…complimentary…to your dress."

Claire giggled. "Is this your way of asking me to be your date?" She clutched her books tighter to her chest; brushed a lock of golden hair away from her eyes. He'd noticed she was beautiful, but he hadn't noticed how sweet she was – briefly and unwillingly, he imagined his mother's ice blue diamond on her finger.

Maybe someone sweet – someone who didn't live-and-die by the Westchester code of selfishness, willful privilege and scheming would be good for him?

_Or maybe I shouldn't drag her into this whole mess? _he thought guiltily.

This was always the way it happened with Derrick: he convinced himself that people were something they weren't. Dylan was fragile and needed his protection; Massie was soft at her core; Cam was loyal and honest.

He looked away; Massie was still staring. Her face showed how hurt and distraught she was. "I guess it is," he told her. "Unless you already have a date? Cam, maybe?"

Claire couldn't make eye contact with him, either. Today was the last day to submit requests for tables, which meant almost everyone else had finalized their couplings. Predictably, Cam hadn't asked her out – after two weeks of flirting, he'd regressed to avoiding eye contact.

_Commitment-phobic. _Cam fucked around with girls and tossed them away after weeks; for a month, they were everything and then, they were nothing. _And I'm supposed to be the slut. _Derrick balled his fists up and shoved them into the pockets of his slacks. _But Cam's the sweet, sensitive, romantic type. Fuck off. _

Claire looked at the ground.

Foolishly, she'd convinced herself that Cam had been just as interested in her as she was in him; told herself that their nightly I.M. conversations and texts during the day had _meant _something.

Of course she had – she'd never had a boyfriend. She'd never even spent time interacting with boys; just men.

What indication had he given her that he was even the _slightest _bit interested? He'd borrowed her iPod and given it back; shared his lunch with her, once, when she'd left her wallet at home; laughed at a joke she'd made about Johns Meredith's ludicrously English Headmaster, Lord Westinghouse III.

There was a part of her that held out hope that he was interested in her, without any actual evidence to that effect. She'd turned down seven Johns Meredith students who'd asked her to be their date to the ball, including Kemp Hurley _and _Chris Abeley (a senior so good-looking, it verged on ridiculous) – all because she was waiting on Cam.

And now it was too late, and clearly evident that his invitation wasn't forthcoming, but Derrick Harrington, Jr. was standing in front of her, and extending his. _I really don't want to do this thing alone, _she thought miserably, staring at her Senso platforms.

"No…no, I don't have a date. I'd love to go with you." She smiled; her eyes were still dull when she did. "My dress is black, but my favorite flowers are calla lilies."

_Unbe-fucking-lievable. _Massie threw open her car door and slid out. "Do my ears deceive me, or are you two _really _going to the Ball together?" She smiled sweetly, but she felt like punching one – or both – of them in the face.

"Looks like it." Derrick smiled right back, but something about his expression made her feel uneasy. Without thinking, she flattened herself against the cool metal of her car door, Longchamp in hand.

"What a coincidence – I was just going to ask Claire to be the Ball's hostess." Massie didn't take her eyes off of Derrick.

Claire stammered. "Oh – that's really nice, but – "

"Your answer is yes." Massie finally tore her eyes away from Derrick long enough to give Claire a bone-chilling once-over. "Isn't it?"

"Um…sure."

Derrick shrugged. Massie's mind was suddenly filled with thoughts of him, shirtless and dripping wet her _en suite_'s shower; the air filled with the scent of ginger, ginseng, and Himalayan salts. _We still haven't spoken about that text he sent me…but right now, I have bigger fish to fry. _

"You should run along, D," she purred. She threw her arm around Claire's shoulder, feigning sisterly affection.

To the masses, Claire was neither Massie's friend, nor foe. They co-existed peacefully; one, a tried-and-true Queen Bee, the other a shiny, new It girl who served as a distraction during a tedious, dull patch of time free of Westchester's usual scandals.

At last count, Massie had shared a total of ten conversations with Claire, none of them meaningful. Otherwise, Massie had kept her distance for the short time that Claire had lived in Westchester – but that was about to change.

"I'll I.M. you tonight," Derrick promised.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Massie turned on Claire. "You know, Kuh-laire, it's almost like you're haunting me; you're always followed by bad news."

"Forgive my, um, _ignorance, _but I'm not sure I understand what you're saying." Claire stood her ground and stared into Massie's eyes. "Did you, or did you not, just ask me to host the Debut Ball?"

"Oh, I did." Massie glared back. "Did you know that Derrick and I used to date?"

_Staking a claim…classy. Why doesn't she just spray him with her perfume like some kind of animal or stick a flag in his arm and declare him 'her territory?' _Claire bit her cheek and tilted her head to the side as she answered. "It's been mentioned – Kristen said you had _history_."

_Kristen…_Massie felt her palm begin to itch. She'd given Kristen an ultimatum: help her find the book or risk her secrets being exposed. It hadn't been particularly effective – Massie didn't have any evidence to use against her.

She'd only agreed to help after Massie had reminded them that someone, somewhere, _did _have evidence; but who that person was, and what they planned to do with it, was a complete and total mystery.

"It's only _history _if it's in the past." Massie smiled sweetly. "And what Derrick and I share is neither gone, nor forgotten."

"Which is why he just asked me to be his date – and not you, who remains dateless." Claire nodded, as if Massie had just clarified some source of great perplexity. "Of course."

It was true: Massie _was _dateless. She'd intended to ask Derrick to be her date today…_well, obviously that plan is ruined, _she thought. But the proud look Claire was sporting made her angrier than she'd been in a long time, and she refused to admit that a home-schooled coat-hanger for swimsuits and tacky evening wear had beaten her to the punch – at least, to the coat-hanger's face.

She curled her hands and pinched her palm with her long, magenta nails.

"I _have _a date, Claire: Cam Fisher. I'm surprised he didn't mention it – aren't you two _friends?_" Claire's face fell; Massie felt a small thrill. There was nothing in life she loved more than victory. "Let me make something clear to you, _babe_: if you show up to that ball on Derrick's arm, I will make the next two years a living hell for you."

Claire could feel her legs shaking and her head buzzing. Massie had ruined Skye's life; she'd even managed to ruin Skye's _parents' _lives. What Massie wanted, Massie got, and no-one stood in her way.

Maybe that was how things worked in Westchester, but it wasn't how they worked in the _real _world. _I guess it's up to me to dole out some very _valuable _life lessons to the bitch-without-a-cause. _She took a step closer and stared down her nose at Massie; her lips stretched into a dry smile but she could see Massie shiver in response.

"Before you make promises you can't keep, _Mass, _you should consider this: I have gone toe-to-toe with people worth _twice_ what you are and won," she said earnestly.

Claire didn't believe in vengeance – but in the span of her short but impressive life, she'd already proven that she did it better than anyone.

Massie took the first step back. "There's a committee meeting tonight. I'll see you at my house. Five o'clock – don't be late."

As Massie walked away, she found herself unnerved. She smiled nervously at a sophomore who called out a hello to her, mind racing and chest tense. It was a feeling that was wholly unfamiliar to her; the last time she had felt it, Skye was standing before her, promising to ruin her for everything she'd done – everything she'd done to Skye and the Hamiltons; everything she'd done to Dylan, Alicia, Kristen and Layne; everything she'd done to Cam and Derrick.

But the thought was strangely comforting. Finally, Massie smiled and she passed through the impressive doorway and into the main building. _Clearly, that's not going to happen. _

* * *

Thanks to **ailes du neige,**  
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As always:

Questions are welcomed.


	10. Chapter 9

First Floor Bathroom

Johns Meredith

Friday 17 September

12:53 P.M.

* * *

"No. No. Absolutely not."

Massie eyed her Chanel watch imperiously – she'd already wasted fifteen minutes in the scrappy first floor bathroom that nobody actually used (the hot water, hand dryer and one of the fluorescents had stopped working in 1994 and never been fixed or replaced), trying to explain a very, very simple concept to Cam – he was going to the ball with her, and he didn't have a choice. "Are you done?" she asked. "Because I kind of have somewhere to be."

Cam was understandably incredulous. His eyes – one green, one blue, and always thrill-inducing to observe – were wide; his breathing was shallow and quick. Massie had no way of knowing without a little handholding (which she wasn't averse to at all), but she was pretty sure that his hands were cold and clammy; he kept rubbing them against his slacks frenetically. "Un-fucking-believable," he said, turning away from her.

"Um, _excuse me, _but Derrick asked Claire to the Debut and she didn't hesitate – really, I'm doing you a favor."

"Why the _fuck_ would Derrick ask Claire to be _his _date?" Cam rubbed his temples, mussing up his already-messy brown-black hair. "He's been listening to me talk about how much I like her for weeks."

"Which I totally don't get, by the way." Massie didn't like to frown – her biggest fears were wrinkles, carbs and sharks, in that order – but since she'd found Skye's little diary (and subsequently managed to lose it) she'd done a lot of it. "She's so…vanilla."

Cam scoffed, turning his back to her. Massie loved almost everything about Cam: his broad shoulders, and the way his leather jacket clung to them; his long, muscular legs, draped in slim-fit raw denim Acne jeans; his long, beautiful, slender fingers; his artist's temperament. She bit back a sigh between her perfectly straight, white teeth. _The only unlovable thing about him is his tendency to over-think _everything_. Actually, make that two things. _She grimaced. _Evidently, he has poor taste in women._

"Of course you don't get it, Massie – she's not a heartless bitch from the pits of Hell. Clearly, you two don't speak the same language."

Massie took a step back on her Louboutins and narrowed her eyes. "Excuse you but that was rude…and totally unnecessary."

"I don't know what's up with D today," Cam hissed, turning back to face her. The two functional fluorescents flickered eerily, casting creepy, ominous shadows across the room; too bad that this was the only place for a Johns Meredith boy and a BALC girl to have a conversation (or 'meet clandestinely') outside of the designated hours of integration, like study hall and lunch. "He's – I don't know. He's acting weird; cold."

Cam was constantly fretting over some imagined slight – Derrick didn't wait for him outside of third period Geography class, or Kemp and Josh booked tickets to a Chet Faker gig and didn't ask Cam if he wanted to go, or Dylan (who was just as anxious and over-analytical about her social life) sat down at a table and didn't acknowledge Cam's presence.

Massie told herself that she wasn't particularly worried; examined her lilac-painted nails for chips, cracks and breakages that didn't exist thanks to OPI Nail Envy and BioSculpture gel; but couldn't shake the tiny, panicked voice in the back of her head, telling her that Cam was right and something really weird was happening. _He _was _acting fucking weird this morning…and, let's face it: asking Claire Lyons to be his date is a sign of total crazy. _

"Are you suggesting he knows about – are you saying he _knows?_" she asked.

Cam's head shot upright.

Like most people, Cam could still remember – very clearly, in fact – the first time he'd met Derrick. On the first day of preschool they'd been stationed at easels next to each other, finger-painting. Young D and Young C had gotten into a fight over the red and white acrylic paint until they'd realized that they were both painting their hero, David Beckham.

Since then, they'd pretty much shared everything: when the fighting got too bad between Derrick's parents, he stayed at Cam's house for weeks at a time; when Cam was struggling to cope with being Head Boy and co-captain of the soccer team and the best student in his grade, Derrick was always there with a joint to listen and give him some perspective.

They had never shared a girl before, and they'd promised themselves they never would. Girls made things _messy. _Girls were a distraction – a nice, soft, pretty-smelling, sometimes-sexy distraction – from the other really important things in life, like school and soccer.

Cam had broken that promise; now Derrick had, too. "Who could have told on us?" he asked, balling his hands into fists. He shoved them into his pockets, determined not to punch a mirror or something equally as fragile, no matter how much he felt like it. "Did you tell anyone? I didn't tell anyone!"

Massie knew it was silly to be offended, but she felt…well, she felt a little bit offended. She and Cam had been meeting up in secret for three months and he hadn't been overwhelmed by the desire to brag? Not even once? _Not even to Kemp Hurley, _Johns Meredith's resident pot dealer and sleazeball perv?"Glad to hear I was your dirty little secret," she murmured, kicking one of the corroded pipes protruding from underneath the original 1890's marble bench-tops.

"Massie, I'm serious. Did you tell anyone?"

"_No!_ I have a reputation to protect."

Cam rolled his eyes.

Massie knew that he was tormented by everything that was happening; well, she was, too. _If Cam was half the good-guy-gentleman-knight-in-shining-armor-type he _thought _he was, we wouldn't be in this situation right now. And if he was a quarter of the guy he thought he was, he would have stopped to check that I was okay right now, instead of being such a think-for-yourself-er. _"Um, this situation is kind of awkward for me, too, C. I'm fully cognizant of the potential shit-storm we're about to weather – so I'd appreciate a little less judgment, and a little more teamwork."

"Go fuck yourself."

She sighed and rolled her eyes right back at him. _Or not. _

Cam turned his back to Massie again, but he could still see her in the mirror; she was preening over his shoulder, unaware that he could see her. _A little less judgement…yeah, right. _Massie was a seductress. Like Eve with a fucking apple, saying "Go on, take a bite." She controlled the people around her with reckless disregard for their feelings, and she did so by whatever means possible. She'd wanted to make Derrick feel bad; take his best friend away from him; so she'd slept with Cam. To Massie, he was nothing more than collateral.

It had taken her two hours and two bottles of Grey Goose to have Cam so plastered that he'd forgotten his own address, let alone the innumerable reasons for _not _sleeping with Massie Block. _And after that? Were you drunk every hour of everyday for the last three months, while you willingly went behind your best friend's back? _

He shook his head. There really wasn't an excuse for what he'd done.

The truth was, Massie was as beautiful as she was evil. Even now, when he wanted to shake the shit out of her and try to make her see sense, he was distracted by her beauty: slender, petite body; long, silken curtain of mahogany hair; caramel latte tan; million-dollar smile. She'd obviously taken extra care to dress herself this morning – he wondered what freshly planned scheme had been interrupted by Derrick's inexplicable behavior.

Finally, he bowed his head. "Fine. I'll be your date."

She grinned. "Good boy. Now, we have a lot to plan, young Cameron. Follow me."


End file.
